


Beyond The Grave

by amindaya, Kizzia



Series: A Soldier and a Doctor but not an Army Doctor [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And Molly is lovely, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Blood, Case Fic, Complete, F/M, Greg is trying to set things right, Guns, John is an excellent soldier, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Minor Character Death, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Sherlock is being a clever bastard, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amindaya/pseuds/amindaya, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzia/pseuds/Kizzia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock may have been gone for almost two years but he certainly hasn’t been forgotten...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my (Kizzia) and Amindaya’s offering for the Sherlock Mini-bang and there's a link to all of Amindaya’s wonderful artwork at the end of the fic (don't forget to go and check out the rest of her work, though, [it’s fabulous](http://amindaya.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art)). 
> 
> I owe Amindaya huge amounts of thanks for her patience as this grew from an initial spark into what it has become - my longest shared Sherlock fic to date. I also need to thank Azriona for her insights on the first couple of chapters.

 

Greg switches his phone to silent, tucks the box into his pocket, grabs the take out cups and steps out of his car. Taking deep breaths of the crisp air - trying to clear his nose and lungs of the scent of blood and smoke that still clings to him from the scene – he juggles his load enough to lock the car and then starts walking. He knows he should have gone straight back to the Yard but he needs space to think properly - without Sally’s worried glances or Hopkins’ misplaced enthusiasm – and so here he is.

Again.

The rooks, in the pine trees at the far end of the graveyard, caw their greetings as he crunches his way down the gravel path toward the now familiar headstone. In the past eighteen months what he intended to just be one visit - to say sorry and try to get his brain to move on - has morphed into a regular pilgrimage every time his fingers itch to dial the number that, thanks in no small part to his own failings, will never be answered again.

In the last month he feels he’s spent more time here than at home.

The June sun is beginning to take the chill out of the air despite the early hour and the black headstone shines, still looking as pristine as the day it was laid. The plot really is beautifully cared for and he wonders, as he often has as he approaches it, whether it’s John or Mycroft who keeps it so immaculate; he’s never seen either of them here. Not that it matters really and he certainly isn’t about to ask either of them to satisfy his idle curiosity. It’s just nice that it’s being done.

‘Morning, Sherlock,’ he says, briefly touching the back of his hand to the top edge of the stone, feeling the warmth of the sun that has already seeped into it. ‘I’m back again … like a bad penny, I know.’

Carefully he sets the two coffees down in front of the headstone, shifting the flowers off to one side. Then, heedless of the dew still clinging to the grass, he sits down next to them.

‘I brought patches, too.’ He pulls the packet out of his coat and works his left cuff open. ‘Molly will kill me if I break my streak now but I’ve been awake for over a day and I don’t think the caffeine alone will cut it.’

Patch applied and the wrapping carefully stowed back in his pocket he leans back against the headstone and picks up one of the coffees, closing his eyes as he takes his first sip.

‘You’d love this case,’ he says once he’s swallowed. ‘I’m floundering around like a circus clown without a ringmaster but you’d probably have solved it already. Scratch that, I know you would. Hell, if you were still here last night probably wouldn’t even have happened as we’d have had the perps in custody for weeks already. Or years, actually, since … Shit, Sherlock, if this is what I think it is … I’m so, so sorry …’

He shakes his head vigorously, runs a hand over his eyes, and clenches his jaw until his teeth start to ache. Then he takes another, longer, drink of coffee, and tries again.

‘Right. I’ll start with what I know.  There was another hit last night. A warehouse in Clapham this time – another one that DS MacKinnon had cleared as clean while he was seconded to the drug squad. Same basic MO as the other five places that have been taken out in the past month; anonymous male calling it in, the security guys taken out by a sniper – one shot for each body, all left where they fell – the bodies inside all fire damaged but dead before the fire was set and a winged heart graffiti-ed on the wall of the building opposite. Only difference this time is that it looks like it was the headquarters of the drug operation, and we found two men hiding in a shed out the back of the warehouse who practically begged to be taken into custody. ‘

Greg draws his knees up to his chest, lets his head rest against the marble again and gives a shaky sigh.

‘To start with they seemed relatively calm and asked for DS MacKinnon - which was enough to incriminate them in my book - but when Sally told them he was dead they lost it. Started gibbering about Moriarty and his soldier going rogue. One actually used the phrases “terminate with extreme prejudice” and “taking out his own”.  And then … And then the other mentioned you. By name. Said it was vengeance from beyond the grave, that Moriarty had turned against his own, against the ones who’d helped him stitch you up ’

 Greg clears his throat, takes another swig of coffee and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

‘Once they’d been shipped off Sally said they were talking rot, that they’d change their tune if we told them DS MacKinnon had killed himself, not been killed, but … it makes sense. Not you suddenly starting some ghostly revenge, obviously, but that Moriarty would decide to wipe out everyone associated with framing you now.

‘Because I may have made some stupid decisions in the past but I’m not stupid. I know Moriarty must have more people in the force than just MacKinnon and so he must know what MacKinnon's suicide note said. He must know that the investigation into your death has been reopened. ’

He drains the last of his coffee with more vigour than necessary and ends up spluttering for a few minutes.

‘I just wish I’d gone with my instincts at the time ... I should have stopped Sally going to the Super and … Oh, who am I kidding, I can’t blame Sally for that. She was right to raise her concerns. She was doing her job and doing it properly. It’s not her fault she was being played by someone who could outsmart you, never mind the rest of us. But I should have told them what you said to me, that we were being duped to get at you. I should have stood my ground and I should have pushed back.’

He slams one balled up fist against the ground.

‘I put keeping my job ahead of what I knew was right and you paid for that with your life. And it made no difference … I still lost custody of the kids in the divorce! I sold out for nothing. And they won’t let me near the reopened investigation. I don’t even know what they think they’re looking for. And whatever it is might help with this investigation, dammit!’

 He pushes himself to his feet and starts pacing in front of the grave.

‘I know all these deaths are linked to what happened to you. I know Moriarty is behind them. I'm certain, now, that MacKinnon killed himself because he knew Moriarty was coming for him. I just have no idea where to look to prove it! I don't have a clue how to start searching for Moriarty or his ‘soldier’ ... because I’m not you. There’s nothing. Not one scrap of useful evidence at any of the scenes except for the bullets in the bodies and they’re useless until I have weapons to match them with.

‘There must be something, though. No one commits a perfect crime. Well, I think you might have been able to but that wasn’t your thing. You proved you could beat the Police by solving the crimes we couldn’t, not committing them. And Moriarty wasn’t trying to beat us, he was trying to beat you through us. So I need to look at the interactions between you and him. Like what happened at the pool when … Oh God … John … He met Moriarty there. He could be a target!’

He has his phone in his hand before he’s had time to draw breath, thumbing through the contacts to find the number he’s stupidly taken off speed dial.

‘Don’t worry about him, Sherlock,’ he says to the headstone, patting the top of it in the way he would pat a friend’s shoulder and then lifts his phone to his ear. ‘I won’t let Moriarty hurt him.’

‘John, it’s Greg,’ he says, walking briskly back toward his car. ‘Sorry to call so early but …’


	2. Chapter 1

'No, I appreciate it, really ...’ John wedges his phone more firmly between cheek and shoulder, shooting Sherlock a warning glare as he does. Sherlock stills, stops trying to wriggle away from John’s ministrations, but adopts a martyred expression that would have John laughing in any other situation.

‘… but I think you might be overreacting. From what I’ve read in the papers it just sounds like a couple of gangs having a turf war.’

Sherlock makes an encouraging motion with one hand, reaching for his phone with the other and starting to text. John fights down the urge to growl at him; instead dunking the flannel back into the bowl with excessive force – splattering the table and Sherlock with warm, TCP infused water - and continuing to clean the dried blood and soot from the rather impressive, but thankfully shallow, cut at the edge of Sherlock’s hairline. Sherlock grimaces and blinks rapidly, but makes no sound.

‘Alright, Greg. I take your point. Journalists are all unintelligent arseholes who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit them … Yes. I promise … _Yes._ The instant anything out of the ordinary happens. Now I’m _really_ not feeling that great so if you don’t mind … Yeah. Bye.’

Sherlock opens his mouth the moment John sets the phone down but John beats him to actual speech.

‘Stop looking so smug, this is _serious_. We can’t leave any more ‘clues’. We’re so close now and you’ve said yourself we’ll plant enough evidence at Moran’s to clear you twice over … No, I don’t want to hear it. Greg was actually on route over here because he thought I was in danger! We’re just lucky he still isn’t sure of his welcome and called ahead because I have no idea how I’d explain my bruises, never mind the fact the flat stinks of smoke and you’re sat in the kitchen.’

‘Pub brawl. Accident with the toaster. I would have hidden.’ Sherlock grins at him wolfishly. ‘Anyway, you deflected excellently _and_ you managed to start the rumour of your illness. Moran will be really confused if he’s tapping your calls … Besides, you agreed we’d leave those goons alive so they’d spill their “story”.’

‘Yes, but ...’

‘It’s good publicity, John.’ Sherlock briefly cups John’s cheek in his hand. ‘At least this way my return won’t be quite such a surprise to everyone else.’

‘Don’t bet on it.’ John meets Sherlock’s eyes squarely for a moment and then ducks his head, looking up at Sherlock from under his eyelashes. ‘Although considering the plan doesn’t involve you sneaking into anyone else’s bedroom in the dead of night, I doubt they’ll be quite as shocked as I was.’

Sherlock doesn’t say anything but a smile tucks itself into the corners of his mouth. John smiles back and resumed tending to Sherlock’s wounds. He has no idea if Sherlock is thinking of that day as well, but he can’t help but let the memory un-spool in his head, still clear and fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

.

.

.

He’d already removed his coat two streets before but, as he reached the middle of Baker Street, John was seriously considering stripping his jumper off as well; the weather having finally decided that summer was most definitely on the way, at least for today, at any rate. Not worth it, he decided as Speedy’s awning loomed into view. Instead he started fishing for his keys without slowing his pace, juggling coat and bag as he worked his way round his pockets.

‘Blast,’ he muttered as his coat hit the pavement and the bag containing Mrs Cartwright’s best Dundee cake – which no-one at the surgery liked but Mrs Hudson adored - almost went the same way. Thankfully one of the tables outside the cafe was free so he carefully set the cake down, rescued his coat and was about to resume searching his pockets when a splash of red on the wall across the road caught his eye.

Keys forgotten he swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs as he took in the graffiti that he’d have been willing to swear hadn’t been there when he left this morning. A red heart sprouting huge white wings dominated the left side of the wall, the centre of the heart bearing the notation “2 down”.  But it wasn’t that which had taken his breath away. It was the way the wings formed a huge M, that was the starting letter of “Moriarty is real” and, underneath, in smaller, yellow lettering, “I believe in Sherlock Holmes”.

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=6oke2t)

He supposed he should have expected it, here of all places, with the second anniversary of Sherlock’s death now only six weeks away. Yet the fact that anyone other than him was willing to stand up, even anonymously, and back a man the majority of the British public  - hell, the world - thought was a fake still astounded him. Must be one of the homeless network, he thought, eyes tracing the words one letter at a time. Probably Roz or Raz or whatever his name was, if the style and that yellow paint were anything to go by, although 2 down wasn’t his usual tag. Maybe it had been the lad he’d seen sitting here this morning, swamped in a hoodie and looking remarkably out of place. 

Not that it made any difference who’d put it there. There’d been messages like this – although nowhere near as beautifully done - scrawled on walls all across London, both in the wake of Sherlock’s death and around the first anniversary. They’d been both a comfort and a torment to him then, just as this was now. To know that he was not the only one still remembering Sherlock as he had been, not the way Kitty Reilly had painted him, did make him feel less alone. But it made him think of Sherlock. It conjured the man completely in his mind until he could almost believe he was standing next to him, observing the work - raising an eyebrow at such a visible declaration of faith and waving a dismissive hand, labelling it ridiculously sentimental and wholly unnecessary.

And thoughts like that brought all of John’s anger at the people who couldn’t see that Sherlock wouldn’t have jumped off a roof just because his reputation was about to be torn to shreds, bubbling up to the surface.  Sherlock didn’t care what people thought of him. He’d never cared. It may have made a nice story – exposed fake takes own life rather than face ruin - it may have made sense to the “ordinary” people in this world but it was wrong.

Sherlock was neither a fake nor was he the sort of person who would commit suicide over the prospect of being shunned by the majority of the world until he could clear his name. There had to have been another reason why he did it and yet no-one who could do anything about that seemed to care.

Well, that wasn’t precisely true. Mycroft clearly cared, had agreed with John when he’d stormed into Mycroft’s office and told him his theory. Yet he’d said, with irritating pragmatism, that why Sherlock had jumped didn’t change the fact he had, adding that no-one but them had any interest in trying to prove otherwise – not now the police had managed to prove that the convictions that Sherlock had assisted with were sound, regardless of his involvement – and since he was Sherlock’s brother any attempts he made would be instantly disbelieved.

So John, recognising the truth of the words even if he didn’t like them, had tried to push the thoughts to the back of his mind - tried to stop creating glorious scenarios in his head where Sherlock hadn’t jumped and John had helped him fix whatever it was that had meant he’d felt the need to do so in the first place – and put his life back together. One day at a time.

‘Doctor Watson, are you well?’ John blinked himself out of his reverie to find Mr Chatterjie standing on the pavement, looking at him with evident concern.

‘Ah, yeah.’ John briskly rubbed one hand over his hair, as if it might order his scattered thoughts. ‘Sorry. Just, um … trying to remember where I’ve put my keys.’

‘In your coat?’ Mr Chatterjie pointed to the table where, sure enough, his keys were dangling out his coat pocket.

John gave Mr Chatterjie a rueful smile, muttered something about it being a long day, and fled up the steps to 221B. He looked up briefly as he jammed the key into the lock, thinking he saw movement at his bedroom window. There was no-one there, except a pigeon peering over the guttering above, and he scolded himself for jumping at shadows.

‘John, is that you?’ called Mrs Hudson the moment he closed the front door, but not in her usual cheery tone of welcome. There was a nervous shrillness to her voice that made the hackles stand up on the back of his neck and he raced down the passage to find her door shut and locked.

‘It is, Mrs Hudson. What’s wrong?’

John heard the clink of the chain and the snick of the lock and then the door slid open, revealing a tremulously smiling Mrs Hudson.

‘Oh I’m so glad you’re home, dear,’ she said as she stepped back to let him in. ‘It’s been a very strange day.’

‘Strange how?’ said John, instinctively pressing the hand he was clutching his keys with to the small of his back, to check his gun was still there as she locked the door behind him.

‘I’m probably just being silly.’ She patted his shoulder as she bustled through to her kitchen, John hard on her heels.

‘I sincerely doubt it.’ John popped his keys and the cake, bag and all, on the table, dumped his coat on the back of a chair and, almost on autopilot, fetched down two mugs and the teapot from the cupboard as Mrs Hudson filled the kettle.  ‘So … are you going to tell me what’s been happening or do I have to guess?’

‘There’s no need to take that tone with me,’ she said but she was smiling, properly, so John counted it as a victory and tried to look suitably chastised. He got a raised eyebrow and a slightly bigger smile for his trouble but then her face fell back into lines of worry and she sat down.

‘It started this morning, just after I’d put the rubbish out. It must have been … Oh, I don’t know, about nine. You’d been gone about half an hour, I think. Anyway, I’d put a new liner in the bin and was just starting on the washing up when I thought I heard my front door close. Well, there wasn’t anyone there, or in the hall, so I thought I must have been hearing things.’

John nodded encouragingly, watching her twist her hands together.

‘Only five minutes later I heard the door to your flat. And then footsteps. I was going to go up and check but then I remembered what you’d said, back when you moved out after Sherlock … well, after Sherlock. So I didn’t. I just locked the door and got on with my cleaning. I’ve been hearing them all day, on and off …’

‘Why didn’t you phone me?’ John took her hands in his own, chafing them gently to try and bring some warmth to her fingers. ‘I would have come home.’

Mrs Hudson turned her head, apparently studying the tablecloth. When she spoke her voice was so quiet John had to lean closer to hear properly.

‘Because it felt … If I closed my eyes, the footsteps sounded like his.’

John bit the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the burning sensation behind his eyelids and slid an arm round Mrs Hudson’s now shaking shoulders.  He was absolutely certain that, if there was someone upstairs in their … in his flat, then the inconsiderate bastard was going to be lucky to be able to crawl away, never mind walk.  Upsetting him was one thing, upsetting Mrs Hudson …

‘I told you I was being silly.’ She tightened her grip on his hand for a moment and then let it go with another pat.

‘Never.’ John surprised himself by dropping a kiss on the top of her head and then stepped away. ‘I’m going to go and check the flat and then I’ll come back and have a cup of tea and some of Mrs Cartwright’s cake.’ He gestured at the bag. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes.’ She dabbed her eyes for a moment and then favoured him with a bright smile. ‘Yes, that’s just the thing.’

He’d drawn his gun before he’d left 221A, Mrs Hudson’s mention of his initial fears after Sherlock’s death - that Moriarty would send someone to ‘clear away’ all those who knew he was real but weren’t under his control - igniting a sense of danger that he couldn’t quite quash. Logic was telling him that, if there had been anyone here today, it was an opportunistic burglar who’d be long gone by now but … he thought he’d seen someone at the window just before he came in. And his fears about Moriarty were, if not quite as legitimate now as they had been, legitimate all the same. He flicked off the de-cocker and levelled the SIG before advancing up the stairs.

To find … nothing. It was a complete anti-climax. The door hadn’t been forced, nor the lock picked as far as he could tell. Neither was there any evidence that anyone, other than him, had been in the flat that day. Still, he cleared every room as if it were an exercise in basic training – including Sherlock’s room, which he normally avoided at all costs, not having been inside since the night after the fall, when he’d lain in the bed they’d shared, eyes dry and chest tight, and wondered what the hell he was going to do without the one person in the world that completed him in every way possible –checking every cupboard and cubby hole a person could fit in. He’d even thought about checking the loft but there were no signs the hatch had been disturbed and he wanted to get back to Mrs Hudson and reassure her everything was fine.

That said, the flat had felt … different. Warmer, more inviting. More like a home should feel, as opposed to simply a place he happened to be living in. Not that he shared that particular thought with Mrs Hudson  while he dutifully drank tea, worked his way through a piece of the awful cake and repeatedly reassured her that she wasn’t to feel silly for thinking she’d heard someone and that no harm was done. She didn’t need to know just how empty he was, nor did she need him being fanciful. It was just his imagination and it would be gone when he went back upstairs.

But it wasn’t gone. It hadn’t dissipated one iota and, as he pottered about, opening the post and flicking through the paper, the sensation seemed to be getting stronger. He realised that he was listening for Sherlock’s footsteps too, which was more than a little irksome. When he found he’d got two mugs out of the cupboard to make tea rather than one, a mistake he’d not made for months, he dashed up to his bedroom and threw on his running gear.

The feeling that Sherlock was somehow present was, he was certain, born out of the fact that for the first time in nearly two years he’d gone up the seventeen steps to the flat with adrenaline pumping through his body. Absolutely nothing more. All the rest of the thoughts swirling inside his head were wishful thinking. Unnecessary sentiment. And that, he’d learnt, was easily fixable.

Run until his lungs and thighs burned, jog home, hit the punch bag Mrs Hudson had let him put up in 221C until his arms and chest burned as well, and then take a well-earned hot shower before crawling into bed. Then, after a decent, dreamless night’s sleep, he’d be back to normal and ready to face another day. Or, at least, be ready to continue coping with a world that still seemed to have the colour and life leeched out of it.

Three circuits of Regent’s Park at a speed he reckoned even Drill Sergeant Kavanagh would have been impressed with followed by half an hour beating seven hells out of an inanimate bag of sand, and he was drenched in sweat, all thoughts of Sherlock subsumed by the need to remember just how to put one foot in front of the other. Content that he’d prevented another night of those tantalizing dreams – the ones where Sherlock reappeared and told him he meant it when he said it was all a magic trick, that he’d done the impossible and survived the fall and they could simply pick up where they left off, no harm no foul – he headed for the shower. Once clean, he consumed microwaved Tesco lasagne that made him wonder if they were still using horse meat, spent half an hour watching QI until he’d judged the food to be digested enough, and then dragged himself up to bed. Gun set under his pillow, as normal, he’d watched the night sky through the gap in the curtains until exhaustion had claimed him.

He woke to darkness, heart pounding in his chest, gun already in hand and pointed towards the window, where a dark figure was silhouetted against the light from the street that the curtains were too thin to hold back.

‘Don’t move,’ he croaked, finger already squeezing the trigger hard enough to cock the SIG. ‘Or I’ll shoot.’

The figure froze into an almost unnatural stillness. ‘I don’t doubt it.’

A small part of John’s mind pointed out that, were he just a civilian, he’d have dropped the gun at the sound of that voice. Another part suggested that he’d finally cracked and had started having waking dreams about a dead man returning.  The sensible, soldier part, the part that was holding sway right at that moment, went with making no judgements until he’d obtained more information.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, voice still rough with sleep. ‘Why are you here?’

‘ _John …_ Do you really not know?’

It was his name that did it. No one had ever said his name the way Sherlock did.

He didn’t remember deciding to move, didn’t care that he was only in a pair of boxers or that he’d now dropped his gun into the tangle of his bedding. All he cared about was closing the gap between them and feeling Sherlock under his hands once more, to prove to himself that this wasn’t all in his head.

He collided with the silhouette with a thump that knocked the air out of them both, his arms banding round and clinging tight as he pressed his face into the gap between Sherlock’s jaw and the neck of his jumper and just breathed. The scent of the skin under his nose was so familiar - so wonderfully, blessedly familiar despite the hints of copper, soot and gun powder that overlaid it – that it hit him straight in the gut and he knew.  Knew without question, knew almost without thought, that this was Sherlock.

His Sherlock. Back in his arms.

He felt Sherlock’s arms wrap themselves around him, almost too tight to be comfortable, felt Sherlock’s lips press into his hair. His chest felt tight, it was a struggle to get air into his lungs. Sherlock seemed to be experiencing the same thing as he was heaving in lungful’s of air as if he’d just surfaced from too long underwater.

Then came the words. Almost too fast, too frantic for John to make out at first but eventually, as they both pulled back a little, relaxed their grips, John could hear what Sherlock was babbling:

‘I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Forgive me, John. Forgive me.’

John pulled back further, trying to see Sherlock’s face properly in the shadowy darkness, work out just what the hell was going on.

.

.

.

‘John?’ Sherlock’s voice breaks through his reminiscing, making the video in his mind’s eye waver and dissolve. He realises he’s sitting, staring gormlessly at Sherlock, flannel still in hand but doing nothing to fix the gash.

‘Sorry, I was just …’

‘Thinking about the night I returned to you ... I could see.’ Sherlock looks at John, expression completely unguarded, and John can see the sadness in his eyes. ‘You may be glad I’m back but you haven’t forgiven me for leaving, have you? Not completely.’

John puts down the bloodied flannel and leans forward, cradling Sherlock’s head in both his hands as he presses a chaste kiss to his still sooty forehead.

‘It isn’t a question of forgiveness, love,’ he says, as gently as he knows how, ‘It’s a question of trust.’


	3. Chapter 2

Sebastian Moran is not having a good day. Scratch that, he’s not having a good year. In fact nothing’s been right since the Boss lost his mind over Sherlock fecking Holmes and then disappeared off to play a worldwide game of cat and mouse with the supercilious arsehole’s pompous older brother.  He wouldn’t mind but it’s been nearly two years of keeping the home fires burning with barely an acknowledgement and now he’s not had any form of contact for over a month. A month that has been filled with rumours of avenging shadows, fires, and disaster after disaster.

For what feels like the hundredth time he wonders if he should break the rules and just text the Boss. Only … well, he’s not scared of the Boss - hell no, he’s ex-SAS and he prides himself on not ever getting scared – but he’s seen what happens to everyone else who went against the Boss’s orders and he’s not about to let that happen to him. But he needs him back here, sooner rather than later. Because he’s not stupid and he knows this pile of shite he’s now wading through alone is down to Holmes senior. Feck it, if it’d been his brother who’d flung himself off a building thanks to someone else’s meddling, he’d want revenge.

Only this isn’t just revenge, it’s annihilation – there is no part of the business untouched and after last night he’s not sure he can get the drug shipments running again at all. And the worst of it is he can’t work out who the feck Holmes has got doing his dirty work. It should have been simple because all the hits have gone down just the way he’d have done them. Meaning Holmes has got someone SAS trained and as good a sniper as him leading them. He’d thought it might have been good old Johnny Watson at first. After all they were pretty much equally matched, skills wise, when they’d served together, he’s never been one to back down from any challenge and has as much reason as Holmes, if not more, to want revenge.

It isn’t though. He’s spent several weeks shadowing him and, as far as he can tell, the most exciting thing Johnny Boy does these days is have tea with his landlady and the occasional pint in the pub at the end of Baker Street. More than that, the night the third hit went down he was actually watching Johnny when it happened and the boring fecker was already in bed. He left Johnny to his own devices after that, just got Wiggins’ little friends in the squat a few doors down to keep an eye out and he’s heard nothing from any of them.

Rubbing his hands over his eyes – as if that might somehow make sense of the mess his world has become – he decides that there’s really only one way to deal with this right now, even if it is only ten o’clock in the morning. Grabbing the whisky he unscrews the cap, realises there are no clean tumblers left in the house and just takes a swig straight from the bottle. _I haven’t been to bed for over twenty four hours_ , he tells himself as the welcome burn of the smoky liquid works its way from mouth to throat and then out into the rest of his body. S _o really it’s a night cap_. _Nothing wrong with that._

His personal mobile pings and he nearly drops the bottle in his haste to get to it.  _Which would have been a proper fecking waste_ , he thinks as he realises it’s from Wiggins, not the Boss. It’s not even proper information – just more whispers that Ronnie Adair is going to move hiding places. Not worth a fecking penny when no one seems to know where the annoying gobshite is moving from or to. He knew involving that jumped up security guard, with delusions of army training, in killing off Sherlock Holmes would come back to bite them. It wasn’t as if _he_ couldn’t have taken Ronnie out of the picture with a well-placed knife and then got the kids himself. But no, the Boss has to be clever, use Ronnie to turn Sherlock into a bogey-man in the kid’s minds and have him be the one to get them to the warehouse. Bring him into the fold, was how the Boss had put it, because he could be useful later on.

Except now, by all accounts, he’s been spooked by that idiot of a bent copper fecking topping himself and has decided to try and trade what he knows for safety. Only he doesn’t know who to trust so he’s just hiding from everyone and not letting anyone close.

Seb glances down at the bag under the table and gives a feral grin. Close isn’t the problem. He just needs to be within 600 meters with a clear line of sight. _Maybe I ought to give the Wiggins’ kid a little more incentive to hunt for him,_ he thinks, taking another absent minded gulp from the bottle. _More money should do since he doesn’t seem to be interested in coke or meth_. 

He thumbs out a text and then slumps back in his seat. It might work, it might not but there isn’t any more he can do. Just sit here and try to figure out how to block Holmes Senior’s next move, whatever the hell it might be, before there isn’t any business left for the Boss to come home to.

oOo

‘It’s a lovely surprise but I’m not finished. I’ve still got two of your incinerated drug runners to log before I can even think about lunch. Besides, it’s nowhere near twelve yet.’

Greg shrugs out of his jacket and perches on the stool at the far side of the room, well away from the slab. ‘I don’t mind waiting.’

‘I’ll be at least an hour.’ Molly looks up at him, frowning very slightly when he makes no move to leave.

‘You’ll not notice I’m here,’ he says, fingers rubbing at his temples, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

‘But at least half the Yard will notice you’re gone.’ Molly steps away from the cadaver, sets the scissors down on the side and peals her gloves off. When he does nothing but give a one shouldered shrug and a half smile she walks over to him, taking one of his hands in hers. ‘This isn’t like you. Especially not when you’re in the middle of a huge  investigation that the press are crawling all over because it’s been going on for so long, never mind that this hit is clearly part of it all … So why don’t you tell me what’s happened to make you come and hide down here … Please.’  

‘I’m not hiding. I …’ He swallows and reaches for her properly, sliding his hands inside her lab coat and pulling her close. ‘Look, I don’t want to upset you.’

‘And I don’t want you to upset me either. So I suggest you tell me what’s going on.’

He takes one look at her steely expression and decides that, whilst discretion may be the better part of valour, valour isn’t going to cut it right now and he’d better just tell her the truth.

‘I came to make sure you were safe.’

‘Safe? Why wouldn’t I be safe?’

‘Because you’ve met Moriarty.’

Molly flinches at the name, turning her head aside and clenching her jaw. He tightens his hands on her waist in response, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on her hips bones as he wishes, extremely fervently, that he didn’t have to have this conversation. He ploughs on, nevertheless.

‘And I think all these deaths, every single one of them, are because Moriarty has finally decided to clear up all the loose ends from two years ago.’

‘I met _Jim_ _Harper_. I don’t think that counts.’ Molly’s voice, when she finally speaks, is quiet; face still turned from him. The level of bitterness in the words, however, is enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

‘But you gave a statement to the police about _Jim_ at the time.’ He can feel the tension thrumming through her body, knows it’s mirrored in his own. ‘And then you picked Moriarty out in an identity parade, after he got himself arrested at the tower, and confirmed him and Jim as the same person. You’re involved.’

‘So? All I ever was to him was a path to Sherlock and then handy corroboration of the story he was putting on for the police and the press. Everything I did was just part of his master plan, even if I had no clue I was playing right into his hands, nor any idea what it would lead to … It’s not like I ever spoke out afterwards. I never said I didn’t believe all the lies in the papers, that I knew Moriarty was real. As far as the world knows, I think I was duped by Sherlock, too.’

Molly tries to pull away and he lets her go, watching with apprehension as she leans against the bench on the far side of the room, shoulders hunched and face hidden by the swath of hair that has escaped her pony tail.

He doesn’t know what to say.

They’ve never really spoken about Sherlock or what happened. He’s never been surprised that she’s never brought it up. If anything he’s always been grateful for the reprieve. He supposes it was cowardice on his part, not bringing it up before but … he’s always known how she felt about Sherlock and the thought of admitting, aloud, that he’d had more than a bit part to play in his death made him feel physically sick.

The thought of that shuttered, closed off look she’d had at the funeral - the way she didn’t cry, just stared blankly at the coffin - has haunted him.  In his nightmares that look is directed at him, after he’s told her how he let Sherlock down, how he didn’t fight for him, didn’t tell him he believed in him, didn’t do the right thing …. He doesn’t doubt that she loves him, but he’s never wanted to find out if that would be the thing that would drive her away, just as his working hours drove his ex-wife into other men’s beds.  

‘Hey, love.’ Molly says, from right next to him. 

He hadn’t noticed her return to his side and he jumps slightly, looking up into a smile that is just a bit too brittle and eyes that are a just a little too bright.

‘I’m sorry,’ she continues, tugging at the sleeve of her lab coat. ‘I was being silly. I just … I wish none of it had happened.’

‘Don’t we all.’ He wraps his arms round her waist and hugs her, face pressed to her chest for a moment. He feels her kiss the top of his head and then he pulls back, getting off the stool at the same time.  Opening his mouth he hesitates, trying to find a way to phrase the words in his head so he doesn’t sound too paranoid. Then Molly solves the problem for him.

‘I know you’re worried and I don’t want to be another source of that worry, so I promise I’ll be careful. I’ll get lunch here, in the canteen, I won’t go out for a walk and I’ll even get a cab home if that makes you feel better. Oh, and I’ll text you every so often, so you know where I am and that I’m still fine.’

She rocks up on her toes, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth and then smoothing one hand down his cheek. ‘I love you,’ she says, so earnestly that it makes his breath catch in his chest. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.’

He’s not entirely sure what she means by that and he doesn’t ask, in case she wants him to back off, to not chase Moriarty down and get it right this time around. Instead he murmurs ‘I love you, too,’ and then, cradling her face in his hands, leans in for a proper kiss.

When they break apart her lips and cheeks are a beautiful shade of pink and she’s smiling properly; the smile she seems to reserve just for him, which lights her face and the room around her, filling him with warm happiness he’s still unaccustomed to experiencing on a regular basis.

‘I do love you, Molly Hooper,’ he reiterates, tucking one of the escaped strands of hair back behind her ear. ‘I’ll text you when I get back to the yard.’

‘Make sure you do.’ She waves him off, just a little wiggle of the fingers of her left hand and he returns the gesture with a half salute that makes her giggle. The last thing he registers, in his peripheral vision as he pushes the morgue door open, is that she’s already got her phone out.

Several miles away, Mycroft Holmes slips his phone from his pocket and glances briefly at the illuminated screen.

‘I’m afraid you will have to excuse me, Gentlemen,’ he says, offering the group of elegantly suited men surrounding him a bland, unassuming smile. ‘There is a small matter which requires my immediate attention.’

oOo

Sherlock winces and then shifts, grateful John is sleeping too deeply to be disturbed as he eases himself into a more comfortable position on the bed. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate John’s care – heaven knows there have been so many occasions in the past two years when he’s wished John was there to put him back together again – but the soluble painkiller John insists he takes tastes vile and he can’t face another dose quite yet, even if it is necessary.  Nor does he want a well meant lecture of the importance of at least trying to get some rest.

He isn’t trying because it would be an exercise in futility; he knows his own body well enough to understand it requires mental, as well as physical, exhaustion before it will sleep during the day, and his brain is far from tired. The knowledge that they are so close to the end, so close to wiping out Moriarty’s empire once and for all, keeps his mind buzzing; thoughts, plans, possibilities and hopes all fighting for prominence the moment he relaxes one iota.

He’s already run through the events of last night in detail three times – trying to work out if they could have done it any differently and got away unscathed. His conclusion has been the same whichever way he’s played it through – that they couldn’t - but that John was injured continues to irk him. Now he’s working through the remaining elements of the plan, checking and cross-checking the details against all he learnt last night, everything John has told him about Moran and his own, extensive, knowledge of Moriarty’s networks and police procedure. There is no room for error or uncertainty now - bar the human elements which are, by nature, not wholly predictable - he has to get this completely right.  Not for his own sake - he’d jumped knowing that he might never be able to return – but for John’s; because if this fails John will be in more danger than he was two years ago, and that is in no way an acceptable outcome.

Sherlock looks down at John and allows himself a few moments of self-indulgent observing.  John has always been beautiful to him, although he didn’t understand that thought for what it was, at first. He’d transmuted ‘interesting’ – which was also true, John was infinitely interesting – and had chosen not to recognise that the descriptor of beauty was correct because of the feelings John had unlocked in him.

Not until The Woman, anyway. Her presence in their lives had, to use an appalling analogy, been the kiss that awoke those feelings – in both of them. He’s not quite sure he’d have saved her life if he hadn’t felt that he owed her for having, in all the ways that counted, saved his; her words and actions had highlighted, both to him _and_ to John, just what they were missing by pretending they wanted nothing more from their partnership than platonic companionship. What she’d given them both was emotional and physical completion. 

John gives a soft sigh and Sherlock sharpens his focus again, taking the time to remap every tiny feature of John’s face into his mental directory of the man who he’s more than happy to acknowledge - in the privacy of his own head - he loves. Sleep makes John’s beauty ageless; striping away the tiredness and the pain of last night’s injuries; smoothing away the lines gathered through thirty nine years of doing the right thing and damning the consequences; giving a peaceful element to the core of calm that has always radiated from him.  What it cannot remove is the scars, the tiny ones in John’s left eyebrow and the hairline of his left temple that were the result of a mishap in army training, nor the thick striations on his left shoulder – half visible above the sheet John has draped over himself – from the bullet wound that changed both their lives so irrevocably.  John is indifferent to the damaged flesh but Sherlock adores it, worships it even, as the physical manifestation of the event that brought John to him.

Suddenly John’s face scrunches, his body tensing as he gives a low almost- grunt and Sherlock is reaching for him before he has time to think about it. His hand is almost on John’s shoulder when John relaxes again, face falling back into placidity, and Sherlock freezes, poised on the cusp of action. He waits through ten of John’s breaths, which remain slow and regular, then allows himself to relax, letting his hand drop back into his lap.

Not a nightmare then. Not at the moment, at any rate.

They will come though, of that Sherlock has no doubt. John is always, once the terror has subsided and the shaking and sweating has passed, stoic about them; saying only that they come with the territory and that, in time, they will pass.  Sherlock knows John is right – after all, he has his own night demons to wrestle with these days – but that doesn’t stop the feeling of guilt which seems to have lodged itself in the pit of his stomach and refuses to be locked away in a dusty corner of his mind.  And rightly so, the part of his mind that sounds a little too much like Mycroft for comfort points out, after all it is his fault. John is suffering because of his selfishness.

Because there is no other word for it. He’s being selfish; putting John through all of this just so he can return, can try and pick up the pieces of his life, and be with John again. It’s not as if he’s much of a prize, after all. John would have a calmer, more peaceful life without him. If he’d stayed away, just taken Moran out from the shadows, John would never have known. His grief would have abated, he’d have spent more time with Mike and his rugby friends and one of them would have introduced him to someone else. He’d have found happiness again. A different happiness, to be sure, but he’d have been happy.

He can see it now, clear as day, just as he had the day he’d come back. And now, as it had then, the thought of John looking at someone else the way he looks at him, touching someone else the way he touches him, sends a spike of pain through his chest and sets the gorge rising in his throat. It had hurt worse that night. He’d stood there, in the darkness, after he’d crept down from the loft hatch, trying to make himself leave John for a second time.

He’d thought that seeing John, close to, just once more, would push the last of his dangerous plans for return out of his head. That his concern for John would triumph over any considerations for himself and he’d be able to go and dispatch the remaining threads of Moriarty’s web and disappear forever. Instead it had made his need for John worse. He’d watched John leave for work from one of Speedy’s outdoor tables – trusting his safety to dyed blond hair, several fake piercings and a hoodie – and all his resolve, all the walls he’d built in his own head, started crumbling at an alarming rate.

For John hadn’t looked like his John.

Well, he had. Superficially his appearance hadn’t changed, other than would be expected for the passing of time. It was how he carried himself that had changed, putting Sherlock in mind of the man who had limped into Barts that day three and a half years ago … A man tired of life, with all his joy, all his purpose, buried in layers of disappointment and hurt.  He was alive but he wasn’t living.

Mycroft hadn’t mentioned this change in any of his reports and Sherlock wanted to be angry about it. Yet he couldn’t. He’d asked, each and every time, if John were safe, not how John was.  The sin of omission wasn’t one he was interested in pursuing. All he wanted, in that moment, was John. He’d found himself texting Raz to come and work his own particular brand of magic on the wall opposite and then he’d sneaked into 221B without properly thinking through the implications.

He kept telling himself, as he prowled through the flat - observing all the little details that outlined the aching gulf in John’s life that his absence had created - that he was completely in control of himself and could leave at any time. Yet he didn’t. The day wore on and he drew closer to the windows, risking detection just for one glimpse of John returning so that he could fix it in his mind before he left for good. But watching him see the graffiti, watching the grief take over his face and then be chased away by resolve and steely determination didn’t assuage his need for John, it amplified it.   He’d clambered into the loft, telling himself that he’d wait until John was asleep, look on his face, properly, one last time, and then he’d leave.

But he couldn’t. No matter what he told himself, no matter how hard he tried to summon his will – tried to tell himself that John’s safety was more important than his own happiness, was more important than John’s happiness because John would find happiness again, in time - he couldn’t go. He just stood there, frozen, heart pounding and stomach churning, watching John sleep. Then John had murmured his name, hands grasping at empty air, and he’d answered; John’s name escaping from his lips before he could stop himself.

It was, he thinks, as he shifts on the bed again, a very effective way to end his internal debate since that whispered word had caused John to surge into wakefulness and he’d found himself looking down the barrel of John’s SIG. Not for long though. John’s initial reaction to his presence had been, and still is, a source of wonder to him. He’d not allowed himself to dwell overmuch on how John might react but he’d considered disbelief and pure fury as the most likely response. So when John had barrelled toward him he’d braced himself for a punch, not being wrapped in John’s arms.

For a moment he’d forgotten how to breathe, the sensations almost overwhelming as John’s warmth seeped into his clothes and John’s face pressed into his neck. John smelt of tea and gun oil and _home_ and he was hugging John back, feeling his skin under his hands once more, and vowing never to let go again.

Then he’d felt a wetness on his skin and the slight hitch in John’s breathing and realised John, his John, was crying. And the words had started flowing. He wasn’t even sure he was making sense, never mind sentences. All he knew was that he had to apologise because he’d never realised that him being away from John would hurt John just as much as it had hurt him. He hadn’t realised just how mutual the affection was.

When John pulled back he had seen, immediately, that John had no idea he was crying. Even in the half light, he could see the glittering tear tracks mapping out the hurt, confusion and joy that was mixed together in John’s expression.  He’d wanted to kiss the hurt away and he’d said so, voice small in the silent room.

‘You can try,’ John had said after what had felt to Sherlock like an eternity. John’s face had cleared and the tears were almost dry; he looked half defiant, half scared but he’d stepped forward so his body was again flush against Sherlock, and then tilted his head up. Sherlock hadn’t waited for a second invitation, he’d just leant down and pressed their mouths together.

Initially he just catalogued the kiss, noting the hint of John’s toothpaste, the way John’s hands slid automatically up his arms and into his hair, re-memorised the sensation of John’s tongue curling into his. Then the kiss changed, John gripping his head and taking, plundering his mouth, almost biting at him with a fierceness that ignited an explosion deep in his stomach. 

What followed wasn’t anything like the sort of sex they’d had before he’d left. Oh they’d had angry sex before, and make up sex, and god-dammit-it’s-been-a-week-and-I’m-gagging-for-it sex. This was all of those and so much more. He’d felt like he didn’t fit into his own skin he needed John so much and John was everywhere, all at once, biting and licking and sucking and stroking as he ripped Sherlock’s clothes off – literally in the case of his t-shirt – and pinned him to the bed.

There was no conversation, just statements of intent and ownership as they relearnt each other’s bodies, the words interspersed with moans and pleas – yet nothing was vocalised in more than a whisper. By the time they both came, almost together, shaking and sobbing with need, they were so wrapped in each other he wasn’t sure where he ended and John began.

He’d tried to speak then but John had hushed him. ‘No words. Not until the morning.’ So he had complied, lain there in silence, listening to John breathing as he wondered if he deserved the second chance John seemed to be giving him.

All these weeks later and he still isn’t sure he’s worth it, if he’s honest. He knows he wants to be, for John’s sake, but he’s still him and he’s made so many messes in his life he’s not sure he can manage not to make another one. What he is sure about it that he doesn’t want to be anywhere else but here, by John’s side and that John wants him here too; regardless of whether he’s forgiven him, regardless of whether he really trusts him. Right now, he belongs here.

As if to confirm that thought John shifts again, snuggling closer and settling an arm possessively over Sherlock’s waist.  He relaxes into the hold and lets his eyes drift closed. Maybe his brain is more over-taxed than he originally thought; introspection isn’t usually something he allows, not to this extent, anyway. He doesn’t need to sleep to rest, anyway. He can just lie here and work through the plan once more, until Mycroft contacts them to say the last piece of the puzzle is in play.

oOo

Kitty Riley sits at her desk, fingers on her keyboard but not typing a word. In her head a countdown is running. It’s been three minutes since she sent the email. Enough time for it to be opened, the first few paragraphs of explanation skimmed and the proposed headlines read. Any second now …

‘WHAT THE …?’ Comes roaring out of the editor’s office at the end, followed by a thump, a few choice swearwords and then the rattling thud of his door being flung open hard enough for the handle to take a lump out of the plasterwork it’s just hit. ‘RILEY! Get in here now!’

She stands, sweeping up her bag containing the relevant files in as she moves, and walks steadily towards her editor.


	4. Chapter 3

The cut off ring of a phone followed by the soft rumble of Sherlock’s voice rouses John, his eyes opening to find he’s using Sherlock as a pillow and the other man is tense under his hands.

‘Mycroft?’ he mouths up at Sherlock. The curt nod he gets in response is enough to get him moving, rolling away and sliding out from between the sheets. His bruises throb as he works the kinks from his spine and one look at the pinched expression on Sherlock’s face tells him he isn’t the only one who needs some more painkillers. Dragging a t-shirt on, he heads for the kitchen, dropping bread into the toaster, flicking the still full kettle on to boil and then rummaging in the medicine cupboard. He’s munching his own toast and buttering some more for Sherlock while the tea is steeping when Sherlock appears and sits down at the kitchen table with more care than normal.

‘Eat this.’ He pushes one of the toast filled plates across the table before gesturing to a glass full of cloudy white liquid. ‘Then drink that … and then you can have some tea.’

‘Everything is ready.’ Sherlock pulls a strip off the toast with his fingers and jams it into his mouth.

‘You’ve rung Wiggins?’

Sherlock shakes his head as he swallows. ‘Not yet,’ he says when his mouth is empty. ‘I’ll do it as we leave, that should give us enough time to get in position. I don’t want him rushing over to Moran now and Moran getting suspicious because he managed to find out where Ronnie is less than six hours after he offered him more money to do just that. There’s more than enough co-incidence in it all without Wiggins seeing things from his window at a time when he’d normally be out on the streets.’

‘You could have just said that to Wiggins. He’s more than capable of following instructions,’ John says, a little thickly, licking toast crumbs from his lips before continuing. ‘Probably best not to risk it though. Not with what’s riding on this. Speaking of which, is Mycroft certain ….’

‘That the repellent Ms Riley can be trusted? Yes.’ Sherlock abandons the remnants of his toast and downs the soluble painkiller in one. ‘Ugh. That stuff is _vile_.’ He looks up at John. ‘Really. She needs this scoop to drag her career out of the freefall it’s been in since Mycroft’s judicious interference, as does that rag of a paper. Anyway, we don’t have to trust her word any more. Her editor has agreed to run them on Saturday and the promotional headlines are already in the proof of tomorrow’s paper. Mycroft confirmed it himself.’   

‘The hackers hacked. Nice.’ John grins at Sherlock for a moment before his smile fades. ‘I don’t like involving the newspapers.’ He holds up a hand to forestall Sherlock’s inevitable protests. ‘Don’t. I know why we are. I know it’s necessary to get the police to behave in the way we need them to, and even I can see the pleasing symmetry in using the same method of getting the public on side as Moriarty used to turn them against you. I’m not saying it’s a bad plan or that it’s not going to work. If I thought that it wouldn’t be happening. It’s just that the whole lot of them make my skin crawl.’

Sherlock gives a brief nod, drains his tea and then stands, holding out a hand to John. ‘Shower?’

John checks his watch. ‘We’ve got what, just over an hour?’

‘Forty five minutes. We’ve still got to tell Mrs Hudson what she needs to do.’

‘Right then.’ John takes the offered hand. ‘We’ll just have to be quick.’

oOo

Greg eyes the pristine white envelope - that has been placed squarely in the middle of his desk and bears only the hand written words “Gregory Lestrade” in crisp capital letters – with deep suspicion. Pulling open the door he’s only just shut he steps back into the main office and looks around. No-one so much as turns in his direction, they’re all wrapped up in chasing down what Greg is certain will be more dead ends. He thinks about calling Sally over but gut instinct stops him. At least if he opens it alone he can make the decision as to what to do with it free from the requirements of protocol.

Hoping he’s not about to land himself in all kinds of trouble – and ignoring the small voice in the back of his head that says he’s getting more and more like Sherlock in respect of procedure, or lack of it, when it suits him – he sits down in his chair, snaps a pair of gloves on and then opens the envelope. _No strange powder so I’m not going to die_ , he thinks as he tugs the folded paper free and spreads it flat on the desk.

His first thought is that one of his team has, in what has to be the worst practical joke ever played, mocked up a fake newspaper front page because right at the top is a blaring promotional announcement, in letters almost as large as those for the headline, saying:

_Tomorrow’s Exclusive: “How I was duped by Master Criminal Moriarty” and  
“Sherlock Holmes: The True Story” by Kitty Reilly_

Only he’s never actually said to anyone at the Yard, not even Donovan, that he genuinely believes Moriarty is real and still no-one on the team is paying the slightest bit of attention to what he’s doing. So why would anyone send him a made up … He blinks rapidly as his brain registers the date on the paper and the fact the main headline is about the latest hit in Clapham. It’s tomorrow’s date - Friday June 14th\- with tomorrow’s headline. A quick glance at the clock tells him it’s after six pm and confirms his suspicion is reasonable. The paper isn’t a fake, it’s a proof.  

He’s not sure how long he sits there, body frozen whilst his mind goes into a freefall of questions he can’t answer and possible actions he’s not sure he wants to take, but he’s grateful when Hopkins bursts in, only remembering to attempt to knock when he’s halfway through the door.

‘Sir, I …’ Hopkins pauses, expression an interesting mix of enthusiasm, concern and worry.

‘… am incapable of remembering to knock.’ Greg shoves the paper and envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket as he stands. ‘You’ve been on the team for nearly two months now. I know.’

‘Sorry, Sir, I just … but that’s not …’

‘Take a deep breath,’ Greg says, not bothering to school the exasperation out of his voice or his face, ‘and then tell me in proper sentences.’

Hopkins drags in a much needed lungful of air. ‘The Chief Super’s on her way, Sir! About the US ambassador’s missing body guard.’

‘Oh for the love of …’ Greg clenches his jaw and swallows the anger back down. ‘Hopkins, when Chief Superintendent Pullman arrives, tell her that we have no evidence he is in any danger, nor any leads since he was reported missing four weeks ago, but we are continuing to pursue all available lines of enquiry.’

‘We are?’ Hopkins sounds genuinely surprised. ‘I thought we’d stopped looking because there was no evidence he didn’t just do a runner and that we’ve got far more important things to investigate.’

Greg closes his eyes briefly, praying to any deity in the vicinity to save him from literal minded, enthusiastic junior officers who don’t know the meaning of discretion. ‘That is so, _Detective Constable_ Hopkins, but if you say that to the Chief Super I will personally have you back in uniform and on the beat so fast you’ll be dizzy for a month.’

‘Yes, Sir. Sorry. Um …’

‘What now?’ Greg calls over his shoulder, already half way out of the door.

‘Where should I say you are? If she asks.’

For a moment he’s tempted to tell Hopkins to use his imagination, but then the thought of what that would actually mean the Chief Super being told stops him. ‘Out,’ he says instead, for want of something better, because he’s certainly not going to share the fact he’s heading to Whitehall with anyone else. ‘Out doing my job.’

oOo

‘Just like normal then, lights and TV on and off, curtains opened and closed at appropriate intervals,’ says Mrs Hudson. They’re sitting at her kitchen table, both in dark grey hoodies and black jeans, John munching on a ginger biscuit and Sherlock playing with his, spinning the lumpy circle like the world’s most pathetic top. ‘Plus a trip to Boots. I’ll get ibuprofen, Lemsip, those tissues with the balm in them … that should do, shouldn’t it?’

‘Yes. We’re just trying to give the impression I’ve got a summer cold, not flu.’ John takes a sip of tea. ‘That I’m bad enough not to want to leave the house but not so bad I couldn’t get up if it was really important.’

‘That’s fine.  I’ll go as soon as you’ve gone. And I think I’ll pick up the ingredients for chicken soup, too.’ She looks at her hands, pressing her lips together and frowning slightly before lifting her head. Her eyes rake over him and then Sherlock and he feels as though she’s cataloguing every bruise, cut and burn they’ve received since they started this. ‘You will be careful, won’t you? When you do … whatever it is that needs doing.’

‘We will, Mrs Hudson.’ Sherlock says, solemn as a priest. He lets the biscuit clatter to a stop and stands abruptly. ‘I won’t let anything happen to John.’

‘And visa versa.’ John stands too, draining the last of his tea as he gives her a one armed hug around the shoulders. ‘It’ll all be fine, honestly. We’re almost done. Almost home and dry.’

‘Well I don’t care if you’re sopping wet, you just make sure you _do_ come home.’ She stands and pulls them into a surprisingly strong hug for someone of her size.  ‘ _Both_ of you!’

John returns the hug, slipping his other arm round Sherlock’s waist just as Sherlock does the same and they stand there, the three of them, in comfortable silence for a few moments.

John pretends not to notice the suspicious brightness of Sherlock’s eyes when they pull apart, nor the fact that he has to clear his throat before he says, ‘Come on then, John. The loft hatch awaits.’

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=106gaq0)

oOo

On the screen in front of him Mycroft watches as the front door of 227 Baker Street swings open and two dark clad figures, hoods up, emerge onto the pavement, garnering nothing more than a second glance from the swarm of rush hour pedestrians.  The shorter one of the pair is carrying a duffle bag slung across his back and they look for all the world as if they’re heading down into the underground to do some busking; or begging with added irritation as he personally thinks of it. Rolling the footage back and viewing it at half speed, Mycroft checks for anything untoward on the perimeter and then, satisfied that no-one has suddenly started watching what has been, for the last six weeks, a busy squat, flicks the screen off and returns his attention to his work.

He’s about to call for some fresh tea when he hears a commotion in the outer office. Checking his watch he smiles and, after tidying the more sensitive documents into a drawer, crosses the room and opens the door.

‘I’m impressed, Detective Inspector Lestrade,’ he says to the man currently facing down his PA’s best icy stare with remarkable fortitude. ‘I wasn’t expecting you for another half hour at least.’

The flash of surprise on the DI’s face is swiftly quashed, but not before Mycroft registers it.

‘Am I really that predictable?’ he says in a tone that makes it less of a question and more of a challenge, already walking towards Mycroft without waiting for an invitation.

‘There is a reason the Yard didn’t want to lose you, Detective Inspector.’ Mycroft steps aside to allow him to enter the office. ‘The simple fact that you follow up the leads you are given and are not frightened to tread on the toes of those in positions of power. If that makes you predictable then it can only be a good thing.’

Lestrade’s expression closes off for a moment and Mycroft only just catches the look of deep sorrow in his eyes before it is gone, replaced with blank, almost stupid look many good policemen employ when talking to those they deem their superiors.

‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ Lestrade says as he takes a position in front of Mycroft’s desk, feet a shoulder width apart and hands clasped behind his back. Mycroft wonders briefly, as he slips back into his seat, if Lestrade realises just how much like John he looks. ‘I know you somehow got the front page of tomorrow’s paper onto my desk. I don’t want to know how. What I want to know is why?’

‘Won’t you sit?’

‘No.’

Mycroft watches Lestrade’s jaw clench so tightly that his own teeth ache in sympathy and remembers the slightly frantic tone in Molly’s voice when he took her call. There are times when he enjoys pushing people, seeing just how much they can take, just what their humdrum minds can be forced to achieve if the answers are dangled tantalising out of reach. This, he’s slightly surprised to discover, isn’t one of them.

‘I that case I will also be brief. I am aware that your superiors have deliberately kept you away from the investigation into DS MacKinnon’s suicide and the subsequent reopening of the case file on my brother’s suicide. I can only guess at the reasoning behind this but it seems to be both short sighted and ridiculous when only a small amount of digging and the application of even the most basic of intellect offers the insight that they are linked to the two cases you are currently working on.’

Mycroft sits forward, resting his elbows on his desk and pressing his mouth to his steepled fingers for a moment. Lestrade’s forehead is still creased from the mention of two cases, but he hasn’t attempted to interrupt, so Mycroft continues.

‘As I told you the last time you came to see me, I want my brother’s name cleared just as much as both you and John do. Whilst the official channels have not been open to me, thanks to my familial connection to Sherlock, I have been working behind the scenes to understand what happened over the weeks leading up to my brother’s death. I have had several break-throughs in the last two months, and, finally, I have been able to provide Ms Reilly with enough “proof” that she and that rag of a paper are now willing to attempt to right some of the wrongs they wrecked two years ago with that article about the elusive Mr Brook and his fanciful claims. Whilst I cannot give you the full details of what I have told Ms Reilly …’

Mycroft held up a hand to forestall the protest already on Lestrade’s lips.

‘Please don’t bother. I gave Ms Reilly my word I would not speak to anyone else about the information I provided and I will not break it. I have nothing else, except public opinion, with which to push your superiors into action and I need those articles in the public domain. I am not about to jeopardise my chance to clear Sherlock’s name, even for someone whom Sherlock so visibly trusted.’

Again Mycroft sees that look of pained sorrow briefly break through the blank façade.   

‘I can and have, however, given you prior warning, short though it is, that these articles are going to be published. I also want to make you aware that I am certain some of my investigations have prompted Moriarty to undertake this clean-up operation that is currently troubling our fair city. Plus I wish to make it plain to you that, once the existence of the two articles becomes fact, several people of very high rank within the Government will be putting pressure on the Commissioner to ensure that Chief Superintendent Pullman reassign you to oversee all four cases.’

Mycroft looks directly into Lestrade’s eyes.

‘My brother once said you were the best of the officers at the Yard. I trust you will not prove him wrong now.’

‘I think he actually said I was the best of a bad lot.’ Lestrade counters, apparently on autopilot judging by the wince he gives as the words leave his mouth.

‘Nevertheless …’ Mycroft leaves the word hanging.

Lestrade stares at him, for what seems like an age even though Mycroft’s internal clock tells him it has been no more than forty seven seconds. Then Lestrade offers him a small, if grim, smile.

‘Nevertheless … and regardless of the fact you haven’t really told me anything concrete … I won’t let him down.’

Lestrade turns abruptly on his heel and starts to stride out of the office.

‘Detective Inspector,’ Mycroft calls as Lestrade reaches for the door handle.

‘Mr Holmes?’

‘It is obvious to me that you still carry some guilt in respect of what you perceive was your part in my brother’s death.’ Lestrade’s shoulders and back stiffen instantly and Mycroft can almost see the hackles rising. ‘I suggest you put that aside now. There are only two people who should take responsibility for Sherlock jumping off that roof; James Moriarty … and Sherlock himself.’

Lestrade’s hands clench into fists and he is so still for so long Mycroft begins to think he shouldn’t have spoken. Then Lestrade nods, once, and is gone.

oOo

‘I’m getting too old for this,’ John mutters as they plod up the indoor fire exit stairs of the tower block. He knows it’s necessary for moving unobserved – after all it was he who insisted on this method of entry – but still, twenty floors wouldn’t have been a picnic ten years ago, never mind now.

‘You’re not old.’ Sherlock doesn’t even look round but John can hear a note of tension in his voice that he’s certain has nothing to do with his comment and everything to do with Sherlock’s injuries. ‘ _Mycroft_ is old. You are not.’

‘How many more flights?’ he asks, deciding not to point out that he and Mycroft are the same age.

‘Seven.’ Sherlock pauses as he reaches the landing. ‘Give me the bag.’

‘No. I’m not the one who took several boots to the ribs along with a rather unpleasant knife wound. Besides, I’ve always said you shouldn’t carry weapons you don’t know how to use. I’m not about to change my mind now.’

Sherlock sniffs but doesn’t argue. Neither does he move to start on the next set of stairs.

‘Let’s take five.’ John leans against the wall and breathes slightly more volubly than his level of exhaustion really warrants, looks at the rapidly darkening sky through the narrow windows then checks his watch. ‘Nine twenty. We’re still thirty minutes ahead of schedule based on when you called Wiggins.’

‘Fine.’ John can’t tell if the curtness is down to Sherlock realising what he’s doing or the level of pain he’s in. Not that it matters. It could be nerves, for all that Sherlock says he doesn’t get nervous; this sort of thing really isn’t, in any way, within Sherlock’s comfort zone and, although he’s now exceptionally good with the SIG as well as very much on top of hand to hand combat - thanks to his lifelong love of martial arts – the level of death and destruction they’ve meted out in the past five weeks has clearly taken its toll.

John would feel guilty about how much he’s actually enjoyed planning and executing these operations – despite the inevitable nightmares they’ve brought – but they feel so much like an extension of everything he was doing in the army that he can’t. All the men he’s killed since Sherlock returned, including the man he’s intending to kill tonight, are enemies of Queen and Country, just like the insurgents he took out in Afghanistan as part of Task Force Black. The army may have retired him but that doesn’t mean the oath he took when joined can be ignored, especially not when the man who, according to his younger brother, is the British Government was the one who called on him to honour it.

Blinking the memories away he looks at his watch again. ‘Right. Move out.’

Sherlock grins at him, the bright and brittle grin that means his adrenaline is starting to flow, and they complete the climb side by side. Luck is with them when they emerge into the corridor to find it completely empty and the door to the flat - that has, as far as Wiggins is concerned, been one of the perks of helping them – still locked. It is the work of seconds for Sherlock to get it open and they slip inside, leaving it unlocked – Wiggins is supposed to be squatting here, after all – and move straight to the window to start setting up.

‘Ronnie is there,’ says Sherlock, opening the window and then peering through the spotter’s scope at the block of flats that are only 150 metres away, as the crow flies. ‘On the computer. On-line gambling. You’ve got a completely clear shot and he’s not likely to move any time soon since he’s in the middle of a poker game.’

‘Excellent.’ John doesn’t look up from snapping open the stock of the L115A3 Mycroft so kindly sourced for him. ‘Pass me the bi-pod, will you.’

It takes less than three minutes for John to have the back of Ronnie Adair’s head in his sights. _This man took money from Moriarty to kidnap children and help frame Sherlock_ , he tells the small part of his mind which is pointing out that what he’s about to do is cold-blooded murder. _He is not worth the price of the bullet._

Sherlock is silent next to him, having already provided the accurate range, wind speed and direction, so John just lets himself meld with the gun and schools his body to stillness. He waits until he is breathing so slowly and steadily that it barely moves his body and then, just as steadily, squeezes the trigger.

Ronnie disappears from his cross hairs in the same moment Sherlock murmurs, ‘Perfect.’

John says nothing, just stands and shakes the inactivity from his body, then starts to pack the rifle away.

‘We should have five, maybe ten minutes until …’ Sherlock doesn’t get any further, his phone buzzing with an incoming text alert.

‘Wiggins?’

‘Yes. We don’t have any minutes. They’re already in the lift. Both of them!’

John doesn’t bother swearing at the fact the plan is starting to fall apart, just shoves the half dismantled rifle and bag behind the sofa, then grabs Sherlock’s arm and shoves him toward the open bedroom door. ‘Stay in the shadows, out of the moonlight,’ he hisses before Sherlock can so much as open his mouth. ‘We can’t risk Moran seeing you until we’ve actually captured him and I’ll have to knock Wiggins out first so Moran doesn’t think he’s in on this and use him as a hostage. It might get a bit … messy, not being able to jump him instantly but don’t shoot Moran unless I’m really in trouble. We need him …’

‘… alive and relatively unscathed. Yes, I am aware.’ Sherlock catches John’s hand as he’s turning away. ‘I won’t hesitate though, if I think you are in danger.’

‘Good,’ John says, just as they hear the ping of the lift. He presses one finger to Sherlock’s lips and then, pulling his own SIG out of the back of his jeans, pads cat footed across to the door.

‘You’d better not be fecking pissing me about.’ Moran’s distinctive Irish drawl penetrates the walls of the flat as easily as a hot knife through butter. It’s the first time John’s heard that voice in five years and it sets all his nerves jangling. ‘If it’s not him …’

‘Nah, straight up. It was freezin’ and I’d come back up ‘ere for a break. I weren’t doing nuthin’, jus’ starin’ out the winda and this car pulls up. All black ‘n sleek ‘n totally wrong for ‘round ‘ere. I did tell ya one of us’d see ‘im sooner or later.’

The door opens and Wiggins walks in, stepping directly in front of John as he lets Moran past. Only Moran halts next to him, head darting to and fro. His left hand is lowering a bag that looks remarkably similar to John’s and his right hand is reaching towards his pocket, where John can see the unmistakable outline of a hand gun illuminated by the light from the corridor. John realises the open window is what’s spooked him.

‘Seb?’

Wiggins doesn’t get to say any more, John’s blow to his temple sweet and true; the teenager falls backward, past John, hitting the wall and sliding to the floor as John shoves the door closed and launches himself at Moran in the same movement.

At which point it all really goes to hell.


	5. Chapter 4

Sherlock watches in horror as the door ricochets back out of the frame and slams into John just as he grabs Moran, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

John tries to right himself but Moran is faster, fist and gun together slamming into John’s left shoulder, making him roar in pain even as he smacks his own gun hand into Moran’s face. The blow lacks force though, the angle wrong, and Moran shakes it off, raising his gun as he does so. Sherlock levels his SIG, blood pounding so loudly in his ears he cannot hear anything but his own internal monologue of _not John, not John_ , but he doesn’t get a chance to pull the trigger; John surging at Moran again, pushing the gun away and rolling them both.

He smashes Moran into the floor with enough force to knock the breath from any normal person. Only Moran is apparently less normal than even Sherlock deduced because he only grunts before twisting under John and grabbing his arms. There is a groan that might have come from either of them and then Sherlock loses track. He can’t see what Moran's doing, nor can he see what John’s trying to do. Hell, he can’t even tell where one ends and the other begins, they’re fighting so closely together and are both clad in dark clothing.  Then there is a deeply muffled retort of a gun being fired and it is John’s cry Sherlock hears.

‘John!’ For a second he is frozen, unaware that he’s even called out.  His brain goes completely off line for a second as the sound fills it with images of John’s torso, flesh ripped and pouring blood. Then Moran’s face becomes visible in the mess of limbs, turning to locate the source of the shout, and he snaps back into action, abandoning his hiding place.

‘Fecking hell!’ Moran scrambles backward and lurches to his feet. ‘What the feck is this? I saw you jump! You’re fecking dead!’ He’s abandoned his hand gun, seemingly intent only on getting away from Sherlock. John, however, is not getting up. The only movement he makes is to curl in on himself, which smears a trail of red across the floor behind him.

Sherlock’s vision goes hazy with hate as he springs forward, catching Moran just as he grabs his bag and pins him to the wall the other side of the door, arm across his throat and legs trapped. He’s aware, but uncaring, that he is making an incoherent noise somewhere between a snarl and a growl as he presses the muzzle of the SIG to Moran’s forehead. He doesn’t need to keep Moran alive if he doesn’t need to return from the dead and he certainly doesn’t need to do that if there is no John to return to.

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=httcpk)

‘They weren’t wrong, those idiots you employed,’ he hears himself say as his finger flexes on the trigger. ‘This is my revenge from beyond the grave, for all you and Moriarty did. And now for what you’ve done to John.’ He sees, right in the heart of Moran’s defiant eyes, a small spark of fear and his mouth curls up into the rictus of a smile. ‘I am _really_ going to enjoy this.’

‘Don’t! Sherlock! Don’t kill him. I’m not dying.’

The sense of relief that surges through Sherlock’s body at John’s shout is so strong it overwhelms him for an instant. It must show in his face because Moran chooses that moment to fight back. A day ago it wouldn’t have made any difference, but Moran gets lucky and catches him right in the ribs.

'Fuck!’

Sherlock isn’t sure whether it’s him or John that shouts it but it doesn’t matter. He's doubled over, flames of pain flaring from his side and it's enough; Moran is out of the door with his bag before either of them can do anything about it.

oOo

‘Mycroft Holmes?’ Molly asks as she sets the tiny table in what was her little terraced house and is now theirs. Greg’s been home an hour already but he’s only just got round to telling Molly exactly what’s upset him quite so much. ‘Mycroft _Holmes_ is sending you tip offs?’

‘How many other Mycrofts do you know?’ Greg snaps, before he can stop himself, turning in time to catch the look of hurt on Molly’s face. ‘God, love, I’m sorry. It’s just …’

‘… you don’t know what to think, much less know what to do about it all. I understand.’ Molly picks up the sheet with tomorrow’s headlines on and looks over it again. ‘I suppose we should be happy that it’s all going to be out in the open. That everyone will know what really happened.’

Her voice is so flat, so completely devoid of emotion, that Greg has put down his tumbler of whisky and gathered her in his arms before he’s really thought about it.

‘Hey.’ He presses kisses to the top of her head, her forehead, the tip of her nose and then her mouth. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s upsetting you?’

She buries her face in the crook of his neck but she isn’t crying. Just holding onto him, so tightly he gets the impression she’s frightened he’ll disappear if she lets go. He doesn’t say anything else; just rests his cheek against her head and lets her be.

Eventually she lifts her head. ‘The night before he jumped he … he came to Bart’s … came to the lab … I … I …’ She swallows, tries to speak again, but no words come. Her eyes are wide, the brown irises almost completely obscured by the pupils and she’s actually trembling. Mycroft’s parting words flash through his mind again and suddenly he thinks he knows exactly why she’s never wanted to talk about Sherlock’s death either.

‘Oh, Molly love.’ He cradles the side of her face with the hand that isn’t stroking her back soothingly. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself for what Sherlock did.’ She looks surprised but he ploughs on, wanting to get it all out now he finally understands. ‘It wasn’t your fault he jumped and you should never have spent the past two years bearing guilt that wasn’t yours to bear. Especially on your own.’

‘No, I …’

‘Hush.’ He presses his thumb lightly over her lips. ‘You are _not_ to blame. Moriarty is to blame and, to some extent, so is Sherlock. You, however, have nothing to feel bad about at all. I promise.’

She stares at him, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. Her breath is coming in fast, shallow gulps and tension thrums through her entire body. Greg tightens his arm around her involuntarily in response but, instead of pulling away from him she surges up and kisses him; a kiss that is hard, desperate, and so full of desire it wipes all other thoughts from Greg’s mind.

They don’t even make it out of the room, the urgency of their mutual need sending them tumbling to the floor in a glorious tangle of limbs.

oOo

'Did you have to hit me, Doc?' Wiggins whines from one corner of the sofa. He’s pressing a cold damp towel to the lump on his temple and his face is screwed up in pain.

'I think you must be concussed, Wiggins,' says Sherlock, from where he's kneeling, digging the bullet from Moran's gun out of the wooden floor. 'Because I can tell you now John did no such thing. Moran, on the other hand ...'

'Ha Ha. I bleeding well know what I've gotta tell the coppers, Mr 'Olmes. But ‘ere and now, between the three of us ...'

'Moran knocked you out. Riled up at being brought into a trap even though you had no idea anyone else was here. Didn't get a proper look at the bloke who was waiting. You think he had dark hair, wearing a suit under a long coat but that’s all you saw before you lost consciousness. _Right_ , Wiggins.'

Sherlock watches Wiggins shiver at the look on John’s face and the cold steely tone he delivers the words in and smiles internally.  John in Captain Watson mode is a sight to behold and not easy to disobey, not even for him, so he has no doubt Wiggins will fall into line without further complaint. There is silent for a moment and then Wiggins proves him right.

'Yeah, Doc, that's exactly what 'appened.'

'Give it a couple of hours after we’ve left,' Sherlock says as he triumphantly drags the bullet out of the floor and throws it to John to bag up. 'Then call the police. You’re scared, you’ve heard the rumours and your friends have all disappeared. You’ve gone to the police because ...'

'… I’ve got no other option. Yes. Right. Got it.' Wiggins doesn't look too happy but Sherlock can read the fact he'll play his part in every tense line of his body.

 _Moran's a bloody idiot_ , he thinks to himself somewhat gratefully as he douses the hole with the home made hydrogen peroxide solution he's been hoping they wouldn't need. _Who would kidnap an informant’s girlfriend, traffic them into sexual slavery and then think they'll be loyal? Even if I hadn't known Wiggins and Angie before I jumped, he'd be mine now anyway, just for that._

'Are you done?'

John's voice has lost it Captain harmonics and, as Sherlock looks up to say yes, he can see why. John's dabbing at the singed and bloody furrow on his side - where Moran's bullet shredded T-shirt and flesh but thankfully did nothing more than that - with an antiseptic wipe, grimacing as he does so.

'Do you need stitches?'

‘I’ve bled on here, too.’ John gestures to the sofa arm and a patch of floor with his ruined t-shirt, which he then bundles into the duffle bag, along with the blood stained wipes and Moran’s abandoned SIG. 'Douse it with the peroxide quickly. We need to get out of here. Now.'

Sherlock complies with the request whilst fighting down the urge to tell John he hasn't answered his question, knowing it'd be both pointless and unproductive. He ceded control of these parts of the operation to John that first morning they were back together and has no intention of trying to take it back now; especially not after John’s admission earlier. He knows John does trust him, deep down, because he can read it in John’s actions, words and eyes, but he’s also aware that there is a big difference between him knowing and John realizing.

Because, however much he’d like to pretend he hadn’t, his actions had hurt John deeply. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t wanted to, it didn’t matter that he’d acted for the very best of reasons.  John had been hurt, is still hurting and until he atones for that - provides John with the assurances he needs to let him trust his instincts once more and therefore trust Sherlock – he cannot put a foot wrong.

So, despite the fact that a corner his mind is screaming that when he’d called Mycroft, to let him know what had happened and ask him to keep watch on Lestrade, he should also have arranged somewhere for John to receive proper medical attention he will ignore it. He certainly won’t make another call to Mycroft. Not unless John asks him to.  

Having covered the final patch of blood with peroxide he stands, the movement jolting his ribs. Judging by the look John gives him, he hasn’t hidden the way the movement sent a lance of fire through his side very well at all. A flash of insight tells him that John is probably thinking the same about his injuries as he is about John’s. Oddly, it quiets the uncomfortable anxiety that he’s made the wrong decision, that he should care more about John’s health than getting John’s trust back. He’s injured but John hasn’t insisted he slow down, or go to be treated by anyone else. John’s assuming that he knows his own limits, that he will say if the pain is so bad that he cannot continue, that he is sensible enough not to take things too far and do permanent damage to himself.  All he is doing is offering that same courtesy to John.  

'I'm set,' he says, stoppering the bottle just as he hears the first wails of a siren.

'Might not be for Ronnie,' John says, jerking his head in the direction of the sound. 'London's full of sirens.'

John’s actions belie him, though, dragging his hoodie on with a badly concealed wince and heading for the door, duffle bag over his shoulder, before Sherlock can so much as blink.

'Wouldn't risk hanging around to find out, if I were you,' Wiggins volunteers.

'We don't intend to.' Sherlock shoves the bottle of peroxide into his pocket and then, with one last nod at Wiggins, follows John out of the door.

oOo

Mrs Hudson is chopping onions to add to the chicken soup when the telephone goes. Running her hands quickly under the cold tap and then wiping her eyes with a clean tissue, she answers it on the sixth ring.

'Hello?' she says, trying not to sniff.

'It's me.'

‘Yes, I can hear that,’ she manages as she closes her eyes, praying silently that they're both alright. This is the first time Sherlock's called her whilst they’ve been off doing  … whatever it is they need to do to sort things out and she can’t help the surge of fear that almost closes her throat.

'You need to take care,’ Sherlock continues.

She knows what he means – John was quite insistent they had a messaging system - no going near the windows, no answering the door to anyone, certainly no leaving the house.  She had tried not to speculate on why that might be necessary but she’s no fool and her imagination is as good as it ever was; a shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature shakes her right to her core.

'I will,’ she says and then presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth to stop the plea for information that wants to follow. She can’t ask because it might not just be Sherlock who hears her. She realises that she's gripping the receiver so hard she's losing the feeling in her fingers but she can't manage to relax her grip.

‘You don’t need to worry,’ Sherlock does sound calm. ‘You just need to stay safe.'

She opens her mouth to agree but the line goes dead so she shuts it abruptly, breathing harshly through her nose.

She doesn't know what she'll do if she loses her boys again. Not that they're boys by any stretch of the imagination but, well, Sherlock has always been so childlike, in so many ways, that she's always thought of him as the son she never had. As for John ... John is kind to her in a manner that few people have the capacity to be and, whereas she's always know Sherlock means well and cares deep down, John shows it every day, with little things no one else would notice.

And he is _John_ again now, not the shell of a man he was up until six weeks ago, pretending he was fine, that he was getting over everything and moving on, whilst slowly dying inside. It had hurt to watch and hurt even more when she realised she couldn't do anything about it, no matter what she tried. So when he'd come downstairs that day and smiled at her, smiled properly for the first time since Sherlock had gone  - with his eyes and his heart as well as his mouth - she'd known.

Not that it had stopped her giving Sherlock a piece of her mind when he'd slunk into the kitchen at the end of John’s attempt at explaining exactly what he’d been off doing whilst they were left to deal with their grief and regrets.  He was lucky she'd not taken a pan to him, to be honest – he’d clearly been listening and although he did look penitent, she couldn’t shake the impression that he was still quite pleased with his own cleverness - but she didn't want John to have to take sides. She'd settled for a regular scolding instead, one that contained just enough bluster and shocked words for John not to think anything of it. It was only when she'd finally got up the courage to give him a hug and her brain accepted he really was back, that she'd told him, in a whisper, exactly what she'd do if he ever left again. The look he’d given her when they finally let go of each other had told her he knew she didn’t just mean the words for John's sake.

The bleeping coming out of the telephone receiver recalls her to the present and she sets it back in the stand with trembling fingers. They are both alive and they will keep each other that way. They promised. She mustn’t worry.

As she turns to go back to the kitchen she realises there are more tears making their way down her cheeks again, which can certainly not be blamed on the onions.

oOo

John tightens his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as they hear the front door slam and murmurs, ‘Not yet,’ into his ear. The farthest reaches of the little garden are pitch dark, the muted light from the blind covered kitchen window merely adding depth to the shadows by the house, rather than illuminating anything properly. Even so, they are crouched directly beneath it, where the light cannot touch them; invisible unless you know exactly where to look. ‘Wait until …’

The revving of an engine and scream of a siren drown out the rest of his sentence but Sherlock nods anyway, remaining motionless until the car is out of earshot. Then he’s on his feet and at the back door before John’s properly upright, muttering about inadequate security as he works the lock open with infinite ease. Gritting his teeth against the pain of the bullet wound – which had bled through the makeshift bandage job he did at the flat before Sherlock had even finished called Mrs Hudson - he reminds himself he’s gone for longer with worse wounds on other operations, pushes the pain to the back of his mind and slips into the kitchen after Sherlock.

The noise of a television programme, a chat show or something of that ilk judging by the whooping of a studio audience, covers the sounds of their entrance completely. The door to the living room is open a crack and, taking the lead, he peers through, checking that the curtains are closed before pushing it open and stepping into the room, Sherlock right behind him.

To her credit Molly neither screams nor drops the mug she’s holding when two dark clad, hooded men appear in the doorway. She freezes instead, eyes darting between them and the door to the hallway, which is close enough to her that she could make a run for it.

‘It’s me, Molly, you’re safe.’ Sherlock steps forward, pushing his hood back as he speaks, and the fear recedes from her face, although she’s still eying John, whose face remains shrouded, warily.

‘What on _earth_ are you doing here?’ She asks as she shoves the mug on the coffee as she stands up, spilling more of its contents, ‘And who is … John!’

‘Sorry, Molly, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He runs a hand over his now visible hair as he smiles at her but then his throat closes up slightly at her reaction. She’s pressing one hand to her heart, the other trembling at her side and her face is now devoid of colour. She looks terrified. Of him.

‘I would have told you … but … You weren’t supposed to … I mean I … Sherlock said …’ Molly stumbles over her words so badly John doubts she’d make sense even if she could put a sentence together.

He sees, out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock open his mouth. He shakes his head sharply and Sherlock shuts it again with an audible snap.

‘I owe you so much, Molly Hooper.’ John opens his arms as he speaks, watching her eyes widen as he steps forward. ‘You helped him stay alive and then you kept the secret and so kept him safe.  Without you, he wouldn’t be here now.’ He’s close enough to pull her into a hug now but he doesn’t. He just waits for her to make the first move.

‘You’re not … angry with me?’

‘No ...’ He can see her bottom lip trembling and he has to swallow hard before he can finish. ‘No I’m not. I’m grateful. So very, very grateful.’

Her eyes, now damp with tears but still holding a haunted look, scan his face. She obviously finds whatever she’s looking for in his expression, her face clearing and one corner of her mouth twitching upward. Then she’s moving, flinging her arms round his neck and hugging him tight.

‘I never wanted to lie to you,’ she says into his shoulder as he does his best not to grunt in pain as she jostles his wound.

‘I know, Molly. Sherlock’s told me everything. You kept me alive too by keeping me in the dark. I really do understand.’

‘Thank you.’ Her voice is muffled by his hoodie, which he can feel growing damper by the second.

‘You’re the one who needs the thanks,’ he retorts, biting the inside of his mouth as she knocks his side again. ‘And it’s almost over. You won’t have to lie any more soon.’

The shudder that runs through her body at those words, the way she then goes completely limp in his arms, tells him exactly how much of a strain the past two years have been on her, too. He looks up at Sherlock, who is standing stock still, just staring at the pair of them, and inclines his head slightly. Sherlock meets his eyes, face carefully blank as he walks over to them and John knows he understands. 

‘I’m sorry, Molly. I didn’t realise …’ He falters, shakes his head as if trying to dislodge a troublesome thought. ‘I mean … Thank you and ….’

Much to John’s astonishment Sherlock then gives up on words altogether, wrapping his arms round both of them and kissing the top of Molly’s head. Molly gives a shaky sigh and lifts her head, looking more like herself than she has since they appeared in her house.  Sherlock releases them both, tugs at the neck of his hoodie in a poor parody of the way he used to pull his coat collar up when he wanted to shut himself off from other people’s emotions and clears his throat.

‘If we’re all quite finished dripping sentiment everywhere, this isn’t just a social call.’

‘I think _all_ of us are, yes,’ John says, winking at Molly.

‘Yes.’ She lets go of John, starts to move away but then changes her mind, arms going round his waist this time as she squeezes tight. He can’t stifle his groan of pain as she presses directly on the wound, or do anything about the way his body instinctively pulls away, curling round the injury.

‘John!’ Sherlock is at his side in an instant, steadying him and helping him towards a chair.

‘I’m fine. Really.’ John eases himself into the seat, trying to get control of the pain again as he does to. ‘I just need to get a fresh dressing on it.’

‘A dressing on what?’ Molly drops into a crouch at his feet, worry radiating from every inch of her body.

‘Gunshot wound.’ Sherlock says abruptly. ‘Where’s your first aid kit?’

‘Kitchen. Second cupboard on the left above the worktop but …’ Sherlock is already moving so she turns back to John, forehead creased and lips pursed. John can almost see the light bulb pinging on above her head as her expression to turns to one of absolute horror.

‘Molly, I …’ he starts but she doesn’t let him get any further.

‘It’s you two, isn’t it?’ She drops to her knees and sits back on her heels, hands going to her pony tail, which she tugs in agitation. ‘All the shootings and the fires. All those bodies.  Even what Greg was called away to just now … it’s _all_ been you!’


	6. Chapter 5

Greg gratefully accepts the cup of coffee Hopkins holds out as he walks into the foyer and jabs the button for the lift. The majority of his body still wishes it were dozing on the couch, head in Molly’s lap, but since he learnt long ago that you don’t get what you wish for in this job he gulps the scalding liquid down and forces himself to concentrate.

‘So … same anonymous caller, same heart graffiti outside, but nothing’s on fire and we’ve only got one body.’

‘Yes, Sir. It’s on the top floor, Sir,’ says Hopkins as the lift doors swish open and they step inside. He’s practically vibrating with enthusiasm as he adds, ‘We had to break the door down.’

‘We?’

‘Well, Hammond and Yates, Sir. They’ve already completed the door to door, Sir. Half the flats aren’t occupied and the people in the ones that are didn’t hear anything. Sally …’ Hopkins catches sight of Greg’s face - eyebrows raised and gaze stern - and hastily amends his words. ‘Sergeant Donovan is searching the flat. Anderson’s on forensics.’

The lift halts and they step out into the corridor together, Hopkins gesturing to the left. ‘It’s right down the end, Sir. Round the corner.’

They fall into step as Greg asks, ‘And our victim?’

‘Male, late twenties, fit.’

‘Fit?’

‘I mean he’s well muscled. Like he works out … Um … ’

Greg watches the blush spread across Hopkins’ face  as he stammers to a halt and wonders, not for the first time, how on earth anyone could get promoted to CID and still be so … innocent. Still, he shouldn’t tease.

‘Sorry. Yes, I know what you mean. Do we know who he is?’

‘No, Sir. The bullet made a bit of a mess of his face on exit. Although Sa ... Sergeant Donovan …’

‘Sergeant Donovan what, Hopkins?’ Greg says when nothing more is forthcoming.

‘It’s probably nothing but, well, she made a very strange face when she first saw the body, Sir.’

‘Indeed.’ Greg doesn’t know what else to say to that, but is saved the need as they turn the corner to find two uniformed officers standing in front of the nearest door. Nodding to the men he stops on the threshold, shoves his half-finished coffee at Hopkins and looks around.

 _Observing,_ Sherlock’s voice echoes in his head, _you’re observing, Detective Inspector. Ensure you do it properly._

Ignoring the splintered door frame he filters out the crime scene lighting rig and the presence of Donovan and Andersen working inside and scans the space. It’s the corner flat, so is probably larger than most in the building and looks larger still because of the absence of furniture. There’s one armchair, facing the state of the art TV above the fireplace – _built in_ , Sherlock’s voice supplies, _so doesn’t tell us anything about the victim_ – and a small stretch of kitchen units, a cooker and a sink occupy the back left hand corner. They don’t look as if they’ve ever been used, the cooker splash back and extractor unit gleaming like new.

The only other pieces of furniture are a dining room table and chairs, set to the right of the kitchenette. There is a laptop set on the table, the back of the screen facing him and obscuring his view of the victim, who is slumped forward over the table top. The spotlights above the table reflect dully in the pool of red liquid surrounding the laptop.

Looking up he sees the bullet hole in the topmost pane of the window in the far wall and almost absentmindedly notes that the lower windows are covered with a sheet. There is a blind still rolled up at the top of the window and a quick glance at the end of its frame confirms the mechanism is broken.

‘He was hiding here,’ he says aloud as he walks toward the body, ‘the question is, who from?’

‘What, Sir?’ Donovan emerges from the door to Greg’s right which looks to be the entrance to the bedroom.

‘His blind breaks and, instead of doing what most people would normally do and just ignore it, he covers as much of the window as he can with a sheet. If he was at street level it would be understandable but up here, where there isn’t anyone who could see in, not with the naked eye, at any rate, there’s no point.’ Greg stops far enough away from the body so that he won’t contaminate it and crouches, so he can see what’s left of the face. There is something familiar about the one unblinking eye but he can’t quite place it. ‘Unless, of course, he was afraid someone was looking for him.’

‘Well _we_ were.’ Donovan holds out a wallet, flipped open to show the ID card in the front pocket. ‘This was Ronald Adair, the body guard to the US ambassador. I thought it was him when I saw the tattoo on his arm but this confirms it. I found it buried at the bottom of a bag hidden under the bed.’

‘And we weren’t the only ones, obviously.’ Greg stands, pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves and takes the wallet. There are no credit cards in there but the wad of twenty pound notes is worth nearly five hundred pounds.  

‘I can’t say for sure until we get the autopsy results and the ballistics report, but this does look like the work of our sniper.’ Anderson says, holding up a misshapen bullet he’s just dug out of the back of one of the dining chairs. ‘This is a point three three eight Lapua Magnum, just like all the others. Must have been relatively close, for the range of the rifle, when he took the shot though, for it go so deep into the chair.’

‘Great.’ Greg turns, hands the wallet back to Sally and closes his eyes for a moment.

He can almost touch the shape of all this but he’s missing something. Mycroft said earlier that the two cases were related and apparently he was right. The annoying thing is that he feels he ought to know why … that he actually already does but he just can’t remember. But there’s been so much happening, he’s so tired and …

‘How did you know he had a tattoo, Donovan? It wasn’t on the description we were given.’

‘I saw it when I interviewed him, Sir. After the ambassador’s children were kidnapped.’

Greg’s stomach lurches and he has to swallow hard to stop his coffee making an unwelcome reappearance.

‘He was part of that investigation? For fucks sake, Donovan, why the hell didn’t you say anything before?’

‘I didn’t remember, Sir, not until I saw the tattoo just now.’ She holds her hands out placatingly and he takes a deep breath, noting for the first time that she looks far more keyed up than usual.

‘I’ll speak to you in the bedroom in a moment,’ he says, inclining his head towards the door. ‘No, don’t argue.’

She glares at him but leaves without another word and he looks across to Anderson, who is also glowering balefully at him.

‘Are you nearly done?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Then get on with it and get the body out of here. The sooner we get an autopsy done the sooner we can classify the cases as linked. And no, before you say anything else, I don’t need your input on how I handle _my_ team, thank you, _Sergeant_.’

‘Fine,’ Anderson bites out, grabbing the UV light with far more force than necessary.

Greg turns to find Hopkins hovering two feet behind him, looking deeply worried.

‘Arrange for the flat to be properly secured and monitored twenty four seven, then find out who owns it, when Mr Adair took possession and how long he’s paid the rent for. Then see if you can find any CCTV footage today of any comings and goings. And work out which of the nearby tower blocks the sniper could have used and get some of the lads to go door to door. Quick as you like.’

As Hopkins scuttles off he shoots another warning look at Anderson and the other forensic technician, whose name he can’t remember, then follows Sally into the bedroom.

She is standing ramrod straight, jaw jutting forward dangerously, and starts to speak the moment he shuts the door.

‘Sir, I …’

‘I’m not about to give you a bollocking.’ He interrupts. ‘I just wanted to have this conversation in private.’

‘What conversation, Greg?’ she asks, shoulders unstiffening ever so slightly.

 _Here goes nothing_ , he thinks, taking a deep breath.

oOo

John stares at Molly, unable to find any words. She’s right to be horrified, of course. It’s one thing to know that your friend was a soldier who killed people on the battlefield, it’s quite another to know they’re running around London doing the same thing.

‘Get your top off,’ Sherlock says, reappearing next to them and dumping the first aid kit on the floor. ‘I can’t treat something I can’t see.’

‘You’ll not be treating anything.’ John struggles to his feet. ‘We shouldn’t have come here. We’ve put Molly in an impossible position.’

Sherlock looks between him and Molly and then gently pushes John back down again.

‘Molly, I think John has misinterpreted your reaction. Please tell him why you’re upset that we’ve been doing our own dirty work.’

Molly blinks, forehead and nose wrinkling, then her eyes widen and she makes a noise that, under any other circumstances, John would classify as a giggle.

‘I’m not upset you’ve been killing those awful people, it’s just I’d assumed Sherlock was stirring up trouble and letting them kill each other, like Mycroft said he had been in all the other countries. God, some of the things those people had done, I should think everyone is grateful. I’m just worried you’re going to get caught!’

‘Oh,’ John says, somewhat stupidly, ‘I thought you …’

‘No, you didn’t. You didn’t think at all.’ Sherlock cuts him off with more than a touch of asperity. ‘So let’s not waste any more time on you being wrong. _Get your top off_.’

John ignores the jibe, knowing that worry for him is what’s making Sherlock snap, and lets Sherlock help him out of the hoodie. Molly’s sharp intake of breath tells him how much of a mess he’s in before he even looks down at his blood drenched side.

‘Is the bullet still in there?’ She asks, reaching for an antiseptic wipe and kneeling up as Sherlock starts working on the now scarlet knot of the bandage.

‘No. It just grazed me, thank God. I …’ He breaks off, clenching his teeth together and gripping the chair arms hard enough to turn his knuckles white as Sherlock starts peeling the bandage away from the open flesh. ‘Fuck that hurts.’

‘Almost done.’ Sherlock’s hands are trembling as he fights to get it unstuck, his face paler than usual.

‘Here.’ Molly takes hold of the bandage, hands steady and face serene. ‘Let me sort this out while you go and get John a glass of water. There’s codeine in the cupboard above the kettle too.’

Sherlock leaves quickly and John redoubles his grip on the chair arms and Molly shoots him an apologetic smile and then resumes the removal.

‘Is the codeine on prescription?’ John asks once the bandage is completely off and he can speak without gasping.

‘Yes, from when Greg had a tooth out last month. It should take the edge off, at least.’

‘It should.’ John shifts so he’s got a better view of the raw, weeping furrow, and takes the wipe out of Molly’s hand to clean the undamaged skin around it. ‘I’m going to need the biggest dressing pad you’ve got and tape as well as bandage.’

‘Right.’ Molly is silent for a few moments as she rummages through the box. ‘Who did this to you?’

‘Sebastian Moran.’ Sherlock says from the doorway. He’s holding a glass and the painkillers but he doesn’t come any closer. ‘I did say this wasn’t just a social call.’

‘Oh God.’ Molly sounds genuinely frightened. ‘How did he find you? How did you get away? Where … Where is he now?’

‘Sherlock,’ John bites out as he starts to clean the wound itself. ‘You explain, please. I, ah …’

‘ _We_ found _him_.’ Sherlock places the water and tablets down on the coffee table, then joins Molly on the floor, motioning for her to continue helping John whilst not actually looking at John’s side himself. ‘We were intending to capture him but, unfortunately, the plan went slightly awry and _he_ was the one who got away.’

Molly rips open another wipe and cleans her own hands again, before opening the dressing pad and holding it out to John. Her hands are still steady but her voice quivers as she asks, ‘What about Greg and Mrs Hudson? Won’t he …’

‘No, he won’t,’ John says firmly, taking the pad and laying it over the patch of mutilated flesh, hissing slightly at the contact. ‘We let Mycroft know as soon as it happened. He’s got men at Baker Street keeping watch over Mrs Hudson and a team shadowing Greg … Tape, please?’

‘Oh, yes, sorry.’ Molly grabs it and rips off a strip. ‘You hold the dressing in place, I’ll stick it down … What about the policeman you said Moriarty had paid to watch Greg? Is he with Greg now?’

‘DS MacKinnon is dead.’ Sherlock’s voice is sharp enough to cut diamonds. ‘I killed him myself.’

‘MacKinnon? But … that was the Sergeant who committed suicide. Greg told me all about it. Said he left a note saying he’d been paid to mess up cases, pass information on raids and stuff to the suspects. The note also implied he was involved in framing you. Only he didn’t say who was paying him so they had to open an investigation and …’ Molly’s voice trails off as she stares at Sherlock with something that looks suspiciously like awe. ‘You wrote the note?’

‘I’m good with my hands. Forgery is hardly difficult for me. But if it’s any consolation, everything in the note was true.’

‘Okay.’ Molly takes a deep breath, finishes taping the dressing down and picks up a roll of bandage. Then, as if working through a mental checklist, asks, ‘So who’s following Moran?’

‘Mycroft’s looking for him on CCTV and I’ve got my homeless network on it too.’ Sherlock pulls his phone out of his pocket and gives it a disgusted look. ‘Nothing yet, which means he hasn’t gone back to his house. He’ll turn up somewhere soon though. Most probably here or Baker Street. He doesn’t have many options.’

‘You came to protect me?’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock’s tone makes it clear he thinks it’s ridiculous that Molly needs that confirmed, and sends a small smile creeping to the corners of her mouth. ‘Moran still doesn’t know Moriarty’s dead, or what part you played in my survival – will never know actually, I had Mycroft change all the paperwork soon after, so none of this could ever be traced back to you – but he wouldn’t baulk at killing you to get to Lestrade.’

John watches Molly’s face as she hands the other end of the bandage to him so he can tie it off himself. It might be the pain clouding his judgement but he’s sure he can see relief there.

‘So no-one can ever find out what I did?’ she clarifies, popping two pills out of the blister pack onto John’s palm, then motioning for Sherlock to give him the water. ‘I can pretend to be just as surprised as everyone else when you finally reveal you’re still alive?’

‘If that’s what you want, yes.’ Sherlock says as John gratefully gulps the pills down and gingerly sits back in the chair. ‘Lestrade need never know you knew.’

 _Not just the pain then_ , John thinks as Molly nods and then says, very brightly, ‘So what do we do now?’

John opens his mouth but Sherlock gets there first. ‘Now, we wait.’

oOo

‘So you think this is all Moriarty trying to cover up the fact that he is real and Sherlock wasn’t a fake? That he used Ronald Adair to kidnap those kids and frame Sherlock. That he’s the one who was paying MacKinnon, to prevent any evidence of his existence coming to light?’ Sally asks, when Greg stops talking. He looks up at her in surprise. He expected scepticism or outright derision at first but she sounds as if she’s actually considering what he’s said.

‘Yes, I do. I’ve never believed that Sherlock created Moriarty and paid an actor to play him. You heard those men this …’ He looks at his watch – _God, gone one am already!_ ‘Yesterday morning, even if you dismissed them out of hand at the time. Plus …’ He struggles against the impulse for a moment, then pulls the newspaper proof out of his jacket pocket, offering it to Sally. ‘… This appeared on my desk earlier.’

Sally’s eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline as she reads it. ‘Do you know what the articles are going to say?’

‘Other than the obvious, no. But I do know this is a genuine proof of tomorrow’s paper and they wouldn’t be publishing if they hadn’t triple checked their sources. They’re basically reversing their own position on the whole affair.’

Sally hands the paper back to him without meeting his eyes. ‘If this is true …’ there is a tremor in her voice that tells Greg exactly what she’s not saying.

‘It _is_ true.’ He knows he sounds far too vehement but he can’t help himself. ‘Moriarty won because he duped us all and Sherlock jumped because … because Moriarty had beaten him, I suppose, and he thought there wasn’t any point in going on. We can’t bring him back but we’ve got a chance to fix what we did wrong back then … Only I can’t do it alone.’

‘And you want _me_ to help you? When I was the one who accused Sherlock in the first place?’

‘You followed the evidence and brought a possibility to the attention of your superiors. You did what you thought was right. Question is, do you still think you were right?’

‘I … I …’ Sally turns and takes two steps away from Greg. Her voice is low and rough when she finally says, ‘I don’t know any more.’

Greg doesn’t say anything else and eventually she turns back to him. Her face is tight but her gaze is unwavering.

‘I want to find out though.’

‘Good.’ Greg gestures towards the door but before Sally can even take hold of the handle there’s the sound of running footsteps and then Hopkins practically falls into the room.

‘Sorry to barge in, Sir, Sergeant Donovan, but you need to come _now_. A lad called the Yard about half an hour ago from one of the tower blocks just over there.’ He bounds over to the window and yanks back the curtain, pointing eagerly into the night toward a looming lit up shape in the direction the shot would have come from. ‘I’m not quite sure exactly what he said, dispatch wasn’t very clear, but I think we’ve found where the sniper took his shot from.’

oOo

By the time Sherlock’s phone vibrates with an incoming text the codeine has muted the pain in John’s side to a dull thud and the coffee Molly made – so thick you could have mistaken it for treacle – has banished the fog in his head.

‘Where is he?’ he asks as Sherlock’s mouth curls into a predatory grin.

‘Seems he thinks you need taking out first. He’s at Baker Street, in the house opposite.’ Sherlock’s already on his feet, phone back in his pocket.

‘The one up for rent?’ John stands too, flexing his shoulder muscles before testing the give of the bandage around his torso, which holds admirably. ‘Where he was watching me from before?’

Sherlock nods. ‘The man’s an idiot.’ He scoops John’s hoodie from the floor, only wincing slightly as his ribs protest, and hands it over before turning to Molly, who is just getting to her feet.

‘You’ll be fine going to bed now. I don’t anticipate Moran slipping through our net a second time but I’ll not take risks with you. Mycroft’s men are already positioned around the house and you can call him if you think for a moment something is wrong.’

Molly’s cheeks colour slightly but otherwise she doesn’t react to Sherlock’s pronouncement, instead picking up the remaining blister packs of codeine and handing them to John.

‘I think you two might need these more than we do right now. Take care of each other.’

‘We will.’ John says, pushing them into his jeans pocket. He’s echoed a beat later by Sherlock who adds, ‘Mycroft will text you when he’s caught.’

‘Thank you,’ she says as she follows them to the back door.

‘No, _thank you_ , Molly Hooper.’ John swiftly kisses her cheek. ‘For everything.’

He doesn’t look back as they slip out into the night once again, but he hears the whispered “Good Luck” as they disappear through the garden gate and into the network of alleys that behind the house.

He’s beginning to wonder how they’re going to get across London – he doesn’t fancy a night bus, not looking as roughed up as they do and they can’t walk all the way – when a scruffy teenager steps out of the shadows in front of them.

‘Have you got something for me, Raz?’

‘Might of. You got the cash?’

Sherlock drags a wad of notes out of his back pocket and grins at the teenager. ‘Keys, please.’

‘Keys?’ John says as Raz drops some into Sherlock palm and grabs the money.

Raz runs his thumb over the edge of the notes with practiced ease and then grins back at Sherlock. ‘Bike’s at the end of there.’ He points over his shoulder into another alleyway. ‘Wiv ‘elmets n all.’

‘Excellent. And Pog?’

‘Waiting where you said.’

‘Fine. Don’t spend it all at once,’ Sherlock says as Raz continues to fiddle with the notes, then grabs John’s hand and pulls him away before he has a chance to ask any questions. Most of which become redundant a few seconds later, when they turn a corner to find a large black Kawasaki parked in the middle of the path.

‘That’s hardly unobtrusive,’ John hisses at Sherlock as he takes the offered helmet and puts it on.

‘Quick though,’ Sherlock says, eyes sparkling in the moonlight before he pulls his helmet on and gracefully swings himself onto the bike without so much as a wince. ‘And neither of us has so much as touched one since we met, so it isn’t predictable.’

‘Very true.’ John slings the bag across his body, strap crossing the opposite side to his wound, and clambers on behind Sherlock. A small part of him thinks he’d have liked his first ride on a motor bike with Sherlock to be in difference circumstances but he quashes that ruthlessly. Images of him and Sherlock roaring through the countryside in full leathers not being helpful right now.

‘You’ll have to hold on lower down, my ribs may not be hurting thanks to Molly’s pills but I doubt they’ll take kindly to this otherwise,’ Sherlock says, taking John’s hands off his waist and pressing them to his hip bones. Then he reaches back, almost grabbing John’s sides before he remembers and pulls on his hips instead, until John’s chest is flush to Sherlock’s back and they are pressed tightly together from knees to stomach. ‘Yes, that’s better. Grip with your thighs as well.’

John opens his mouth to ask if Sherlock’s sure he’ll be okay but there’s no time, Sherlock kicks the bike into life and takes them roaring off through the almost empty streets.

oOo

Mycroft allows himself a congratulatory smile as an intercepted text message appears on the screen in front of him. It is the first non-routine message the number has received in two years and tells him that, although everything is not going to plan, their final objective is still eminently achievable. Reaching for his phone to inform Sherlock of the whereabouts of Moran he pauses, aware that he didn’t pick up the man’s arrival at the house, and pulls up the relevant CCTV feeds on his monitor.  No sign of movement, not that he’d expect to see any, but there are, if you look in the shadows of the doorways round and about, more people sleeping rough than has been normal for the past few weeks.

He’s about to send a text to Sherlock anyway, not willing to leave anything to chance at this point, when a motorbike, with two black clad riders, appears in the feed showing  the south end of Allsop Place – the road directly behind the east side of Baker Street - and rolls to a halt in front of some bins. A figure appears from the shadows between them, takes both riders’ helmets, puts one on and then takes the bike. Mycroft pockets his phone, massages the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand for a second, and then sighs as he notes down the registration number of the bike.

Turning from the screen once all three figures have disappeared, and wondering as he does so why Sherlock has to needlessly complicate his life at every given opportunity, he presses a silver button on the corner of his desk.

‘Get someone to modify the last three minutes of the footage on Allsop South to clear all evidence of a motorbike and riders, then have them trace and clear the bike from the feeds before and after that time,’ he says as his assistant appears in the doorway between her office and his. ‘Instruct Annabel to intercept any report of the theft of the bike.’ He hands her the page with the registration written on it. ‘Then I need you, and a small extraction team, at 232 Baker Street immediately. The package will, I should imagine, be ready for transportation on your arrival. It must not be allowed to escape this time.’

‘Sir.’ She nods crisply, then strides towards the outer office and reception desk, thumbs already moving in a blur over the keypad of her Blackberry.

Mycroft walks over to the window and, for a moment, allows the weight of the day to show in his body as he slumps against the window frame. St James’ Park is still shrouded in darkness but the faint cheeping of a blackbird tells him dawn is imminent _. If I were given to sentimentality, I might draw an analogy between this and the events intended for later today_ , he thinks to himself, closing his eyes for a moment and drawing in a deep, slow breath. _As it is, I shall get on with my work and simply hope that John subdues his erstwhile comrade-in-arms before this new dawn provides too much unwanted illumination_.

oOo

Moran fights down the urge to check his phone again. He’ll feel the vibrations if the Boss does respond, if not, then tracking him down becomes the fourth task on the list, once the three original targets have been eliminated.  He’d like to take out Sherlock Holmes too, fecking little gobshite that he is, but his death has never been part of the remit. Besides, he’s pretty certain the Boss is going to want to handle it personally; in the same way he wants Johnny’s blood on _his_ hands, in recompense for being so thoroughly tricked.

 _I won’t make this clean_ , he decides, as he moves his eye to the rifle’s scope once more, focusing on the half open flat door just visible through the window of 221B, illuminated by the street lights outside. _A stomach wound at this range will be untreatable and agonising. Plus he’ll be alive long enough to really regret throwing his lot in with that lanky streak of piss who won’t be able to do a damn thing for him and it’ll bring the old lady running, so I’ll get a crack at her too._

A slight noise that might have been a creak from the corridor behind him has him turning and sliding off the table he’d shoved against the window to use as a resting position, dropping into a crouch in the shadows below it. Knives appear in both his hands so fast it would look like magic if anyone was observing him. Through the door, which he left open because the hinges were shot to hell and made a bloody awful noise if you tried to open it quietly, he could see only empty space. There was nothing there, neither on the landing nor at the top of the staircase that was visible beyond.    

Tamping down on his own breathing until it’s barely audible, even to himself, he listens, hard, for long minutes. Other than the rumble of the sparse traffic outside there is nothing. No creaking of floorboards or doors, no shuffle of feet on carpet, no hints of anyone else in the house at all. _You’re jumping at shadows because you’ve not got your handgun_ , he chides himself, unrolling from the crouch and replacing the knives into his thigh sheaths. _You bolted the back door after you and you know no-one saw you come in here. Take a deep breath and fecking well calm down. If you miss Johnny because you’re acting like a pussy you’ll deserve whatever punishment the Boss dreams up._

He swings himself back up onto the table top, making it creak and groan in protest. It’s no wonder the place hasn’t been rented out yet, filled with cheap furniture that wouldn’t stand up to daily life. Repositioning the rifle so its barrel is flush against the window frame and thus not obvious to anyone looking up – the faint greyish blue tint to the world outside telling him it will be light very soon - he stares across at 221B.

Nothing. It looks just as it did when he … a flicker of movement reflects in the window pane and he’s turning, reaching for his knives only to freeze into stillness a second later. For the second time in under twelve hours he has the barrel of a gun pressed to his forehead and this time he doubts there’ll be an easy way out, because it’s Johnny’s finger on the trigger.


	7. Chapter 6

‘Sherlock, take those knives off him, shove the rifle in the bag, and then check him for any other weapons. As for you, _Seb_ , if you so much as breathe deeply, I’ll shoot you.’

John can hear the gutteral edge in his voice but, as he stares down the barrel of his SIG at a man he once fought alongside, a man he’d thought to call brother, he can’t bring himself to care. He thought he’d been spared this rush of betrayal, which threatens to close his throat and cut off his breath, since it hadn’t made an appearance at their earlier meeting. Apparently his emotions have been kind enough to wait until he isn’t fighting for his life to make themselves known, so he supposes he should be grateful only his voice is betraying him. At least the continual twinges from his side mask any imagined throb from the scarring on his shoulder.

He hadn’t had time to really look at Seb before, but now he takes in the familiar face and notes the differences; the shadows under the eyes that are deeper than he’s ever seen before, the extra lines in the still weather beaten skin, the new razor fine scars across eyebrows, temples and neck. The look in his eyes isn’t new, though. It’s one John knows rather well, and means he thinks he’s got something cunning up his sleeve – metaphorically rather than physically but still, John’s intensely glad Sherlock’s searching him thoroughly. Trouble is, he probably has.

‘Now tie him up,’ he instructs as Sherlock finishes patting Seb down, having recovered two more knives in other body sheaths. ‘Legs first, ankles _and_ knees, like I taught you. The bindings are in the bag.’

John lunges forward as he finishes speaking, knocking Seb off balance and pinning him to the table.  The muzzle of the gun remains pressed to Seb’s forehead throughout. Still Seb doesn’t make a sound and despite the fact John knows it’s just their training at work, he has to fight down the urge to demand he start talking. A few seconds later and it’s most definitely a case of being careful what you wish for.

‘Not takin’ any chances with me this time, then, Johnny boy,’ Seb murmurs, eyes glinting as he looks up at John.

John opens his mouth to tell him he lost the right to call him Johnny when he first took Moriarty’s money but Seb keeps going.

‘I wouldn’t either. Wouldn’t trust anyone or anything. Not after all you’ve been through … all that pain. He damn nearly broke you, Johnny. I was there, you know, I saw. Saw the terror on your face as he stepped off that roof, saw the life drain from your eyes as you looked into his sightless ones. I’ve never seen you look like that and we’ve seen some awful shite in our time.

‘And all of it was _fake_ , Johnny, every single second. It looked so real and yet it was all lies. So how can you know what’s true now? How do you know he’s not just putting on a show? God, Johnny, how can you stand it, having his back, following his orders when you don’t even know if he’ll still be there when you wake up the next morning. Cos he’s abandoned you once, mate, so what’s to stop him doing it again, if …’

‘SHUT UP!’ John’s shout is echoed by the crack of metal hitting cheekbone as he slams the SIG into the side of Seb’s face. The force of the blow sends his head crashing back against the table, eyes rolling in their sockets as he fights for consciousness.

‘John, I …’

‘No, Sherlock, don’t say a word. Not one goddam word.’

John doesn’t look at Sherlock as he shoves Seb off the table, sending him face first onto the floor. Then he drops to his knee, jamming the other into the small of Seb’s back and, with the hand that isn’t pressing the SIG to the back of Seb’s neck, grabs first one of Seb’s wrists then the other. He notes, with grim satisfaction, that his one-time friend is still too stunned to struggle.

‘Bind his wrists.’

Sherlock does as he’s told, face blank and very, very pale. The minute the final knot is done John scrambles to his feet and, ignoring the pull of the bullet graze, drags Seb up and flings him into the dilapidated armchair set against the far wall. Then he draws his own knife from his pocket and, grabbing one sleeve of Seb’s t-shirt, cuts off most of it and shoves it in Seb’s mouth. The man blinks owlishly up at John, blood trickling from the gash on his already swollen cheek, and his eyes start to focus properly. Which is just what John was waiting for.

‘Now that you know I’m not messing around, Seb, I want you to listen to me. Really listen. Because that little stunt you just tried to pull, it won’t work. It was clever, mind. Cleverer than either of us were expecting, right Sherlock?’

He turns to look at Sherlock, catching a brief look of shock in his eyes before he gives a sort of grunt that could be affirmative or could just be confusion. _Well, he won’t be confused in a minute_ , John thinks, as he looks back at Seb, narrowing his eyes as he continues.

‘But clever won’t cut it. Not now. You see I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought the things you were saying, hadn’t wondered, in my darkest moments, whether I was just another useful tool for Sherlock to use to achieve what was necessary. I defy you to find anyone who could go through that and not think the same at some point. Yet I’m still here, still at his side, still his, in every possible way.’

John heaves in a breath and reaches for Sherlock’s hand.

‘And do you know why, Seb? No, don’t answer, of course _you_ don’t. You’re applying your own set of values, such as they are, to a situation you couldn’t hope to understand. Sherlock jumped off that building for me! He knew you were there, knew you were watching me through the scope of your snipers rifle. He knew that if you didn’t see me break, didn’t see me believe, _you_ wouldn’t have believed and I would have died.

‘He gave up his whole fucking life to keep me safe and he did it _because it had to be done_. Not because he wanted to, not because he wanted to see how clever he could be, but because it was necessary. His back was to the wall and it was the only way to beat your boss, end the fucked up game we were all caught up in, and stop anyone else from dying. He did what was right, not what would have been best for him, or best for me.’ 

He takes a step forward, still holding Sherlock’s hand, and looms over Seb, prodding him in the chest with the SIG.

‘You _should_ know about this, you fucking bastard. We served together, we made tough calls and we watched as each call brought about the loss of one of our own to save the lives of others. You should have learnt! Except you always were more concerned about the body count and the ‘craic’ than what we were fighting and dying for. I thought it was just your way of coping with all the shit, thought deep down you felt the same way I did. I know now just how wrong I was. I’ve seen _all_ the files on you. But _I_ learnt. I learnt the hard way that doing what is right can lose you friends, hurt the ones you’re supposed to be protecting, leave you lonely and alone. But I also learnt that it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it!’ 

John knows he’s practically snarling now, as he drops the gun and reaches forward, yanking Seb’s head back by the hair, so he’s looking right into the other man’s eyes. He doesn’t care, this is far too important. The words have been bubbling inside him for weeks and maybe he should have said them sooner only he wasn’t sure he really meant them. He’s damn sure now, though. Sure that he needs to say them, sure that Sherlock needs to hear them, and sure that Seb –who, once upon a time, he would have died for and almost did, in fact – is a fitting witness to it.

‘Sherlock didn’t want to lie to me any more than he wanted to hurt me but he did it anyway and I’m never, ever, going to let that drive a wedge between us. So don’t bother trying anything else because there is nothing … _nothing_ I will not risk, _nothing_ I will not do, to keep Sherlock safe and clear his name. Moriarty took two years from us with your help and I will not let you, or anyone else, take anything more. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

John’s panting as he finishes, releasing Seb’s hair with one last yank then taking a few steps back. Seb drops his chin, refusing to look at either of them, and John watches him carefully, just in case it’s a trick, even though he knows the bindings are good and there is nothing more he can do.

He’s about to turn to Sherlock, who’s still holding onto his hand as if his life depended on it, and suggest that they call Mycroft to help them get Seb out of the building, when he finds himself turning anyway.

‘Sherlock, what …?’ John doesn’t finish the question, because suddenly he’s finding it very hard to breathe. Sherlock’s released his hand and is reaching up, cradling his face as if it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held. His eyes are blazing, irises glowing gold as the sun makes its first proper appearance of the day, and his smile is so bright is seems to fill the whole room with warmth.

‘You meant every word.’ Sherlock’s voice is so low and so rough with emotion John almost doesn’t recognise it.

‘Yes, I …’ He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, doesn’t get to apologise for not saying everything sooner. Sherlock crushes their mouths together and kisses the words right from his lips.

oOo

‘What’re you doing down here?’ Greg’s voice, gravelly with exhaustion, is what wakes Molly. He’s crouched next to the sofa, giving her a very lopsided smile. ‘I didn’t expect you to wait up.’

‘Wh … what time is it?’ She asks through a yawn, pushing up onto her elbows and trying to focus on the clock above the television, which she doesn’t remember switching off.

‘Quarter to five.’ Greg sways slightly, steadying himself on her shoulder.

‘Time for bed then,’ she says firmly, swinging her feet to the floor and standing, pulling him with her and taking his phone at the same time. ‘I’m switching this off too, they can manage without you ‘til mid-morning at least.’

‘No, don’t,’ he makes a swipe at the phone but misses, ending up wrapping his arm right round her as they stagger toward the stairs. ‘Too much goin’ on.’

‘You’re dead on your feet, love.’ She presses a chaste kiss to his dry lips and starts to shuffle them up to the bedroom. ‘You’re no use to anyone like this.’

‘Okay,’ he murmurs, eyes already drooping. He doesn’t say anything else until she’s divested him of shirt and trousers and is tipping him into bed. Then he slurs, ‘Set the alarm for eight.’

‘Don’t you worry about anything,’ she says softly, draping the sheet over him. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

He’s out in seconds, unaware that she unplugs the landline before getting in beside him and doesn’t set the alarm at all.

oOo

He’s never felt like this before, not in the middle of a case at any rate, and a small part of his mind is marvelling at how much he’s changed to even consider doing this now, never mind acting on it. The rest of him, however, is totally focused on showing John just how much those words, and the understanding and trust they signify, mean to him.

It’s most definitely working too, John melting into him, mouth warm and welcoming and hands sliding up his back in into his hair. Sherlock tightens his own grip on the back of John’s shirt, pulling him closer still, concentrating on nothing but the onslaught of sensation kissing John always unleashes until a cough from the corridor makes them jump apart. John’s retrieved the gun and has levelled it at the sharply suited woman in the doorway before he can quite process what is going on.

‘Oh, sorry Anthea.’ John lowers the gun with a shrug, the tips of his ears going slightly red. Sherlock wonders, briefly, as he nods his own greeting if he should find out what her real name is. 

‘Mr Holmes sends his compliments,’ she says, apparently completely unfazed at finding them wrapped in each other, ‘and wonders if you’d like some assistance in transporting the … package.’ The look she gives Moran as she says the final word leaves no one in any doubt just how she feels about him, her nose wrinkling up and lips curling down in distaste.

‘That’d be lovely.’ John’s already focusing on the syringe that has appeared in her right hand. ‘Do you want to do the honours with whatever that is? Presuming it’s stronger than the thiopental I’ve got.’

‘Love to. And it’s etorphine.’

John nods his approval as, for the first time, Moran starts fighting his bonds; rocking backwards and forwards and managing to make more noise than most people can with gag in their mouth.

She has to raise her voice a little to add, ‘It’s diluted, obviously. Has he not realised you want him alive yet?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ John grabs Moran by the throat and slams him back into the chair. ‘Either thigh’ll do.’

She administers the injection swiftly, through the material of Moran’s jeans, and he loses consciousness in seventeen seconds precisely. Sherlock watches as John’s shoulders relax as he steps away from Moran, his head drooping slightly and realises that he’s only had five hours sleep in the past thirty six. Take that, along with the fatigue he must be experience due to the blood loss, and he can only still be upright thanks to adrenaline, caffeine and sheer bloody-mindedness.

‘Can you and Mycroft’s men get Moran back to his house without us?’ he asks Anthea as she caps the used needle and tucks it away.

‘Of course.’ Her gaze is sharp, one eyebrow lifted in an unspoken question. He doesn’t hesitate to answer.

‘John and I are going straight back to 221B and we won’t be leaving until fourteen hundred hours at the earliest, so …’

‘What? No!’ John cuts him off, apparently oblivious to the fact he’s got one arm wrapped round his injured side again. ‘We’ve only just got back on schedule. We need to go to Moran’s, get everything set up and then I’ll come back, get into 221B via 227 and the loft space, then leave, very visibly, at eleven. Just as we planned.’

‘ _You_ are more important than the schedule.’ He doesn’t look at either John or Anthea, instead turning away to gather the rest of Moran’s kit. ‘The plan didn’t factor in either of us being injured. We both need medication and a decent amount of sleep. This afternoon will be interesting enough without either of us forgetting our lines because we’re exhausted and in pain.’

When he turns back John is looking at him with soft eyes and Anthea has her blackberry in her hand.

‘There will be no problem with us staging Moran’s house in your absence. I’ve informed Mr Holmes that he needs to ensure the press conference isn’t called until fifteen hundred hours at the earliest.’ She taps another couple of buttons and a smile flashes momentarily across her face. ‘Detective Inspector Lestrade has only just returned home, which should assist with the new timings.’

She pulls a leather glove from her pocket, puts it on and holds out her hand for Moran’s bag as two men appear in the doorway, dressed as if they’ve been clubbing and holding a bundle of clothes.

‘I’ll take that, shall I?’

‘Indeed.’ Sherlock hands it over and then, because John’s forehead is wrinkling in confusion as the men cut the bindings and start to strip Moran, says, ‘I presume there’s a car that will look like a taxi coming to pick the three of them up.’

‘Oh, clever.’ John says as Anthea nods. Sherlock swallows down the urge to say it’s trite and obvious, instead gesturing for John to put his SIG away.

‘Come on, John. We need to get across the road while the light levels are still too low for anyone to properly notice us.’

oOo

The shrill ring of the doorbell wakes him, followed by a frantic hammering. Blearily Greg drags himself into a sitting position, staring round the dark room. His mouth is dry, his eyes are gritty and Molly is nowhere to be seen, her side of the bed cold. When he manages to blink enough to see the nightstand there’s a note from Molly saying she’s gone to work and the red numbers on the clock show nine forty five. Hoping like hell it’s wrong he staggers out of bed, grabs his dressing gown off the back of the door and pads downstairs as he drags it on. The sun pouring in through the glass of the front door, outlining the silhouette of Hopkins, tells him his hope is a forlorn one.

‘I’m coming,’ he tries to shout as Hopkins continues to bang on the glass but all that comes out is a croak. _Coffee,_ he thinks as he reaches the door and yanks it open and stalks away towards the kitchen, uncaring that Hopkins practically falls into the hall behind him. _Once I’ve had coffee everything will be ok_.

‘Sir!’

He hears the door shut and then the pounding of Hopkins feet as he runs to catch up. He doesn’t turn round, instead busying himself filling the kettle and finding the biggest mug they possess. Unsurprisingly his lack of interest doesn’t stop Hopkins from talking.

‘Sir! The Chief Super’s made you head of the investigation into MacKinnon’s suicide note and the Sherlock Holmes case, as well as what we’re already working on, Sir! And they’re re-opening the kidnapping of the US Ambassadors children and Moriarty’s trial. You’re to head them, too. And give a press conference at half three this afternoon. All because of this, Sir!’

Hopkins thrusts a newspaper in front of him and he manages, just in time, to look surprised and make a show of reading it.

‘Where is Sergeant Donovan, Hopkins?’ He says as he hands it back.

‘On her way to the Yard. _She_ answered her phone, Sir.’

Greg allows himself an internal smile at the barely concealed reproach.

‘Get yourself back there now, get Donovan to commandeer the biggest investigation room and get all the files, on all the cases I’m now heading, in there. Tell her she can use whoever she prefers from the other teams to follow up links and leads but the first priority for both of you is to get familiar with the MacKinnon file and then work from there. I _know_ you both know how to do this.’

‘Yessir! Right away, Sir!’ Hopkins is out of the kitchen and halfway down the hall before he pauses and Greg can almost hear the internal argument he’s having in his head.

‘I’ll be no more than half an hour behind you, Hopkins,’ he says, pouring boiling water over the coffee granules. ‘But if I’m to front a press conference this afternoon I think a shower, a shave and a decent suit are necessary.’

oOo

When Mrs Hudson walks into 221B, carrying a saucepan of chicken soup, the last thing she expects to see in the middle of the living room is Sherlock holding a large bunch of orange lilies.

‘Sherlock, where on earth did those come from?’ She sets the pan down on the coffee table and tries to take them from him. ‘You can’t keep them up here, John’s allergic to them.’

‘Which is precisely why they’re staying, Mrs Hudson.’ Sherlock sweeps them out of reach and winks at her. ‘John is supposed to be suffering from a cold, is he not?’

She shakes her head and pats his hand. ‘You think of everything, don’t you?’

‘He does,’ John says, emerging from the bathroom and leaning against the fridge as he towels his hair dry. He’s wearing dark jeans that hang low on his hips but his torso is bare, the bullet wound a startlingly vivid stripe of red on his right side. Apart from the wound though, he looks far better than he did when they crawled into bed, his face having lost the pinched greyness of exhaustion. Sherlock has to admit, if only in the privacy of his own head, that he, too, feels better for six hours of uninterrupted sleep.  ‘Put the flowers on the kitchen table, Sherlock. It’ll only take half an hour or so of exposure to turn me into a snuffling mess.’

‘I’ll leave them in here for now.’ Sherlock says, setting them on the desk and picking up a plastic bag as Mrs Hudson reclaims the soup and heads towards John and the stove. ‘They weren’t the only thing Pog brought over. Anthea sent a gift you might want to use before you stop being able to breathe properly.’

John raises his eyebrows but remains silent until Sherlock is standing next to him, holding open the bag. His look of disbelief morphs into a grin as he sees what she’s sent; a vial of Bupivacaine and a syringe, several large steropacks of thin antibacterial dressing and two boxes of prescription drugs, one of ampicillin, the other codeine.

‘I can definitely see why Mycroft values her so highly. Is there anything she can’t lay her hands on?’

‘Well you’re out of bounds for a start,’ Sherlock says, startling a laugh out of John.

‘Likewise,’ he says, pulling Sherlock in for a brief kiss before setting the anaesthetic and syringe on the kitchen table along with one of the dressing packs. Sherlock fetches surgical tape and antiseptic wipes from the cupboard and passes them over. John makes quick work of numbing the wound, giving it a thorough clean and then binding it up. His phone vibrates with a text as he’s working but he only glances at it, gives a curt nod, and completely ignores the next one that comes through.

‘Mycroft has arranged for those texts to be answered as if it’s you, so you don’t need to worry about what to say.’

‘Good,’ John says, not looking up, ‘it would be very weird supposedly answering you when you’re still sat in the room.’

Sherlock nods his agreement as Mrs Hudson puts a glass of water in front of each of them, reminding Sherlock of the painkillers. ‘Codeine.’ He offers two tablets to John  

‘No, thanks. I think Anthea sent them for you,’ John says with a smile, ‘since I’m now completely pain free and will remain so for another eighteen hours at least.’

Sherlock doesn’t need telling twice, downing the pills as Mrs Hudson puts steaming bowls of her soup in front of the pair of them.

‘Are you going once you’ve eaten that?’ John asks as he picks up his spoon.

‘Yes. You need to follow …’

‘… As soon as I get the text saying Vatican Cameos. Yes, I remember.’

‘Honestly boys, all these code words and secret signs. You’re worse than Dan Brown.’

John chuckles so Sherlock assumes it’s a reference to some God awful TV personality and opens his mouth to remind Mrs Hudson what she needs to do. Only she beats him to it.

‘I’ll clear up all evidence of your presence here once you’ve gone,’ she says, resting her hand briefly on Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘Not that there’s much but still - better safe than sorry. And then I’m to make a fuss about you going out, John, aren’t I?’

‘That’s right, Mrs Hudson,’ John says round a mouthful of soup. ‘For once we want the world and his wife to know I’m leaving the house.’

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at the odd expression but doesn’t say anything as Mrs Hudson potters out of the flat. He’s having trouble with the soup, despite knowing he needs to eat, his throat tight and stomach aching with what, he suddenly realises, is fear. He takes a deep breath, trying to ease his body as he tells himself not to be so stupid. It works to a degree and he’s about to lock the emotion down, push it back into the far recesses of his mind when he looks up and catches John’s eye.

‘It’s okay to be scared, you know. I am.’

‘I don’t … I don’t get scared.’ Sherlock can feel his shoulder muscles tensing up as he speaks the lie.

‘Not normally, no. But this isn’t just a case. This is the rest of our lives we’re playing with. I’d be more worried if you weren’t.’ John reaches across the table and takes Sherlock free hand, thumb circling on his palm. ‘I’m a bit scared too, but that’s only superficial, it’ll just get the adrenaline flowing. Because I know this is going to work. And d’you know why?’ John doesn’t wait for him to answer. ‘It’s because it’s _our_ plan. Something _we_ worked out together. And we are the strongest thing I know … Together we can’t fail.’

Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond, all the words and phrases he thinks of being either trite and overly saccharine or too emotionless for the situation. The silence stretches between them, John continuing to stroke his hand and look at him with calm certainty, and still he – the man John once said would outlive God trying to have the last word - cannot even manage to articulate a simple yes.

Some of his thoughts must be showing in his eyes, because John nods as if he’s spoken, lifts his hand and kisses his knuckles. And then breaks the spell by sneezing, extremely loudly, five times in quick succession.

‘Lilies are working,’ Sherlock says nonchalantly, now his voice is working again, and offers John his handkerchief.  

‘Thad’s gread,’ John says, blinking rapidly reddening eyes as he takes the square of cloth. ‘Rebind me again why dis is nedessary!’

oOo

Sally gasps loudly when Greg pushes a mug of coffee into her hands and drops a sandwich pack on her lap, then offers him a tremulous smile.

‘It’s nearly two, I don’t want you fainting in the press conference because you’ve forgotten to have lunch,’ he says by way of explanation. ‘And you look like you could use a break.’

‘Thanks. I just …’ She gestures with her coffee mug to the mounds of paper on the floor, the spider’s web of evidence pinned across the walls and the scribbled notes on the freestanding whiteboard. Her voice is no more than a whisper when she says, ‘How did we not see all this before?’

‘No-one was looking.’ Greg bites the inside of his mouth for a moment as Sherlock’s voice says the words with him inside his head.

‘Plus half of it wasn’t here,’ Hopkins pipes up from the corner, where he’s sticking pictures of each graffiti heart side by side. ‘It wouldn’t have mattered how carefully you were looking six weeks ago, there really wasn’t much to find.’

Greg and Sally look at each other, stunned.

‘G … Good point, Hopkins,’ Greg manages when Hopkins turns round to see why neither of them have responded. He adds, in an undertone meant for Sally’s ears only, ‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ and is gratified to see a small smile on her face for a moment.

‘I still let my envy of him colour my judgement,’ she says, softly, a moment later. ‘He was better than I’d ever be and wasn’t bound by any of our regulations, didn’t have to answer to anyone but himself. I let my anger that he was able to act like that, was able to flout all the rules, influence my decisions where he was concerned. If I hadn’t been so willing to hate, to want him not to be what he was, maybe I wouldn’t have let MacKinnon’s words fester in my mind and poison me against him.’

Greg rests a hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently. He’d been certain that MacKinnon had planted the idea that Sherlock was the one responsible for the kidnapping in Sally’s head but hadn’t wanted to ask. Now he doesn’t have to.

‘It’s in the past,’ he says as, for a moment, the shadow Hopkins makes on the opposite wall as he stands grows longer and thinner in his mind, becomes topped with dark curls and an upturned collar before retreating as Hopkins leaves the room. Sally’s hand comes to rest over his own and she looks up at him, determination writ plain on every feature.

‘I can’t apologise to him, but I can help you make it right,’ she says.

He swallows hard and, finally the lump that seems to have been stuck in his throat for the last two years eases as he realises what he’s doing now is the best goodbye he could give his friend.

‘Yes. Now we look to the future. Finish what Sherlock started. Take the bastard down.’

oOo

‘He’s been awake for half an hour.’ Is the greeting John receives from Sherlock when he enters Moran’s house through the back garden. ‘And he’s already repeating swear words.’

‘Seb neber wad origidal.’ John says, sniffing loudly. Sherlock’s dressed in his old clothes; the white shirt that was always too tight is now ripped across his chest, two buttons hanging off, and the fitted suit looks like it’s seen better days too. There’s a new bruise developing across his cheekbone, his wrists are raw and his hair is doing a good impression of a bird’s nest. All in all he looks exactly like he’s lost a fight and then spent a night in the same gear. Just as he’s supposed to.

‘Still suffering?’ Sherlock brushes John’s cheeks with his thumbs, wiping away the water streaming from his eyes.

John just nods, the set of his mouth warning Sherlock against saying anything else so blatantly obvious.

‘Everything’s done, apart from you.’ Sherlock pulls open a door that leads to a garage with a large chest freezer set against one wall. John doesn’t ask for permission, just strides in and over to it, yanking the lid up. Moriarty stares up at him, eyes wide open in unseeing death. He clenches his jaw for a moment, remembering the last time he saw that face in real life, winking up at him from the dock, and savours the rush of fierce joy that this man is no longer breathing the same air as him.

‘Molly did a good job,’ Sherlock says, now standing at John’s shoulder, ‘and then Baskerville kept him safe.’

John drops the lid closed and grins recklessly up at Sherlock. ‘Does Seb dow whad’s id his freezer?’

Sherlock shakes his head. ‘I don’t believe anyone has enlightened him yet. Shall I do the honours?’

‘Yes.’ John makes an after you gesture then adds, as Sherlock starts walking, ‘ad den you can punch be id the face, for a change.’  

oOo

Greg fixes a bland expression on his face and then walks into the press conference, Sally and Hopkins on his heels. His eyes are immediately drawn to Kitty Riley, sitting in the front row in an abhorant pink blouse and a smile so smug his hands actually itch to slap her. He settles for taking his seat and fixing her with a look that has made more than one junior constable quiver and she turns away, shrinking back in her chair slightly.

He waits until the room is quiet and his watch hits three thirty exactly before he nods at Sally to begin.

‘Thank you all for attending today.’ Her face remains as bland and calm as her voice. ‘Detective Inspector Lestrade will read out a brief statement first, copies of which will be provided afterwards. You may ask questions _after_ the statement has been read out … Sir, would you like to begin.’

_Honestly, no_ , he thinks as he looks down at the sheet in front of him. He starts talking anyway.

‘As many of you will be aware, the body of Ronald Adair, one of the bodyguards to the US Ambassador - who had been working for him at the time his children were kidnapped - was found in his flat late last night.

‘Preliminary forensics indicate that he was killed by the same sniper who has been responsible for the spate of drug and human trafficking related shootings over the past six weeks. In light of this death and the suicide of Detective Sergeant Fred MacKinnon, which brought to light new evidence in respect of the death of Sherlock Holmes, we are now treating all these cases as linked and have reopened the investigations into the kidnapping, the suicide of Mr Holmes, and the trial of James Moriarty.

‘I am heading the investigation as a whole and would ask that if any of you hold information on any of these cases …’

He pauses, staring directly at Kitty Riley.

‘… that you do your civic duty and share it with us. Thank you.’

Nearly everyone in the room shoots a hand into the air and starts shouting his name. He lets Sally pick the questioners, knowing that she won’t even look in Riley’s direction, and does his best to answer then all without going off script or giving away how little they can really prove. He thinks they’ve almost got away with it when Kitty interrupts, speaking over a mousey little journalist who looks, to Greg, as if he works for one of those weird specialist publications they use at the end of “Have I Got News For You”.

‘I think, Detective Inspector, I’d be correct in asserting that if my two articles weren’t being published tomorrow then you would not be paying any attention to James Moriarty’s involvement in Sherlock Holmes’s death.’

Greg opens his mouth to say no, but his denial is drowned out by the sound of every phone in the room beeping with an incoming text. He looks down at his phone, heart pounding as he reads the one word on the screen from an unknown number.

**Wrong**

Out of the corner of his eye he sees that Sally’s phone is shaking in her hand. Kitty Riley also looks taken aback for a moment but recovers quickly, lifting her head and giving him a contemptuous look.

‘Oh, very clever. But it won’t bring him back you know. Sherlock Holmes is dead and no amount of trickery can change that.’

All the phones beep again. Unknown number again.

**WRONG**

Greg’s phone alone beeps for a third time. This time the number isn’t unknown.

_Sherlock Holmes:  
_ **I’m not dead.**

For a moment he thinks he’s going to faint, his vision blurring and a sick feeling welling up in his stomach, but then he hears the door open and looks up.

And he’s there.

Sherlock.

Bruised and battered but wearing that damn coat even though it’s well over twenty degrees outside. What’s more, following behind, looking as badly beaten up as Sherlock - but with a shell-shocked expression that Greg imagines mirrors his own - is John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that amindaya has added her art to Chapters 3 & 4, so you might want to have a little look back. In fact there's no might about it. Go and look, they are stunningly beautiful!


	8. Epilogue

_The immediate aftermath of Sherlock’s return …_

The room is in uproar, people shouting, camera flashes going off, and Sherlock and John almost disappear into the centre of the melee. Greg’s brain seems to be on a go-slow, processing everything in frozen snapshots at half speed, making him feel as if he’s watching a slide show that keeps skipping. Then he hears Sherlock’s voice, raised to make himself heard about the crowd, announce something about providing interviews for everyone, except Kitty Riley or anyone else working for the News of the World, once he’s given his evidence to the police.

It’s enough to break the spell.

‘Hopkins, Sally, leave the press releases and help me get them out of here.’ 

They obey with alacrity, Sally moving swiftly to the door and calling for back up as he and Hopkins shoulder their way - without the care and attention to not stepping on peoples’ feet they’d normally employ - into the press of, well, press. When he reaches them he finds he can’t look at Sherlock’s face, his gut churning at the thought. So he doesn’t, shuffling close to John instead and leaning in to say, ‘Get hold of him and head for my office.’

John nods and does exactly as instructed. Greg can’t help but notice the tentative way he grasps Sherlock’s waist as he turns him and immediately feels guilty for asking; this must be so much worse for him.  

An elbow in his side stops that train of thought dead and he’s too busy shouting and threatening to think about why his chest is tightening with every breath and the sick feeling is growing, not receding.

‘Here,’ Sherlock dips his hand into his coat pocket the minute they reach a reporter free corridor and waves a torn and grubby piece of paper in Greg’s face. ‘You’ll want to send a squad to this address immediately. John rescued me from there and Sebastian Moran, who, incidentally is the sniper who has been eluding you all for the past six weeks, is currently tied up in the living room.’

Greg’s steps falter. Sherlock’s tone, the look on his face, every single mannerism, is just as it always was. The last two years might never have happened. He can’t move, can barely breathe, never mind get his brain to process what Sherlock was saying.

It’s Sally who takes the paper, with a steady hand.

‘I’ll take Hopkins and some uniforms to investigate, Sir.’ She steps in close, free hand on his shoulder and gives him a gentle shake. ‘If those are your orders?’

He nods, even the movement of his head feels wrong, as if it doesn’t belong to him anymore.

‘I’ll take their statements,’ he manages to say, aware that his voice sounds hollow. ‘In my office. I … yes, in my office.’

‘Right, Sir. Come _on_ , Hopkins.’ Greg blinks, Sally’s tone breaking through the utter confusion in his brain, and sees Hopkins staring with awe at Sherlock, who looks supremely uncomfortable.

_Good_ , a quite large part of his mind says. _Why the hell should this be easy for him? Who does he think he is, swanning back in as if nothing’s happened?_

This sudden tsunami of fury starts him moving again, past John, who still looks blindsided by everything that’s happening, and Sherlock, to whom he issues a curt, ‘my office, now!’. He hears them following him and so picks up speed, uncaring as to whether either of them can keep up, bruised as they are.

He stops short of the door and waves them in, turning to glare at those constables still at their desk and inform them that he is not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Then he steps inside, slamming the door and flicking closed the blinds that block the view to the rest of the floor.

He turns, hands on hips, just in time to see Sherlock wrap his arms round John and murmur something in his ear. John shakes his head but his arms slip round Sherlock’s waist and he leans into the embrace. For a moment, until they pull apart, Greg feels like the worst kind of voyeur, but then Sherlock looks straight at him and says, ‘I expect you have questions, Lestrade,’ and all of Greg’s anger comes flooding back.

‘Questions?’ he yells, ‘Of course I have questions you …!’ He snaps his mouth shut on the swear words and heaves in a lungful of air. Then another. Then he raises his head, looking Sherlock straight in the eyes for the first time since the man appear downstairs, and says:

‘You can start with how you did it.’

‘I could.’ Sherlock pauses, looks down at John for an instant. ‘However I think you’ll be more interested in the why.’

Greg bites the inside of his cheek for a moment then stalks to the window and looks down at the entrance to the Yard. ‘Fine. Tell me what you like. This is all your show anyway, _Sherlock_.’

‘Lestrade, I …’

‘Explain, Sherlock.’ John sounds as if he’s right at the end of his tether. ‘Just explain.’

‘I didn’t want to deceive you, either of you … But I had to. You had to think I was dead. The world had to think I was dead. Otherwise you would both have died.’

The slight hitch in Sherlock’s voice as he says the word “died” has Greg turning to look at him, so he sees the brief flash of anguish pass over Sherlock face before he tamps it down, face regaining the look of serene placidity that Greg has always admired and hated in equal measure. The flash was enough, though, to calm the rage inside him and allow him to listen properly to Sherlock.

It was still difficult to follow; Moriarty’s plan, the help from the homeless network, the assassins and the new identity as Hans Sigerson; the little flat in Oslo, the waiting and the watching and the sudden realisation his death might not be enough; followed by a reckless flight home and Moran almost succeeding where Moriarty had failed. The difficulty was not because Sherlock wasn’t explaining it properly - he was, down to the very last detail - but because he was too busy watching Sherlock. Reacquainting himself with the living man, rather than the presence he’d carried with him over the last two years.

‘Do you understand?’ Sherlock says at last, stepping in front of Greg and resting one hand lightly on his shoulder.

‘Yes.’ His voice is rough and he coughs slightly, only to have Sherlock dart away and bring him the glass of water that’d been on his desk. ‘Th-thank you … yes, I do.’

He looks past Sherlock to where John is leaning against his desk, head tipped back. John’s eyes are closed and his mouth is pressed together in a tight thin line and the bruise that had just been a shadow when he’d arrived is now a dark mass over his left cheekbone.

‘Take him home, Sherlock,’ he finds himself saying, pushing away from the window ledge he’d perched on and, for a second, grasping Sherlock’s forearms to steady himself. ‘Take him home and make it right.’

‘I …’ For a moment it seems that Sherlock is lost for words but then he nods, with every inch of his old sharpness, and sweeps away.

‘Come along, John. We’ve got a lot to do.’

John opens his eyes and stands, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. ‘We’re not going to have a moment’s peace, are we?’

Greg can’t help smile back. ‘No, we’re not, thank God.’

 

_A day later …_

Greg steps out of Moran’s house into the noonday sun, completely exhausted and wanting nothing more than to get out of his clothes and take a long, hot shower. Between the upstairs bedrooms filled with notes, trophies and photos of various schemes and hits Moran and Moriarty had organised and the main bathroom, that had been kitted out for … No … he isn’t going to think about it because, despite all the awful things he’s seen over the years, it makes his skin crawl and his stomach churn. He’s more than willing to bet that most of the stuff in there was Moriarty’s rather than Moran’s but it makes no difference. The house is in Moran’s name and his finger prints are all over it, along with Moriarty’s. That’s more than enough to convict the man ten times over.

Sherlock is lucky; lucky Moran decided to use him as bait to get to John, lucky John hasn’t forgotten any of his training, lucky to be alive.

So is he.

The box holding the surveillance pictures of him from two years ago was a bit of a shock, despite the fact Sherlock had told him about it yesterday. Still, it’s one thing to hear that you were a target, that a colleague was literally waiting to pull the trigger and end your life, but it’s another thing to know, to hold the incontrovertible proof in your own two hands.

Refusing a lift in a squad car that Hopkins attempts to organise for him, he uses the walk to the tube and then the blessedly empty train journey home to clear his head. By the time he opens the door, to be greeted by the wonderful smell of baking, he feels calmer than he has in weeks.

When he finds Molly in the kitchen, apron clad and lightly dusted with flour, pacing in tight circles, he realises he’s the only one who is.

‘Molly, love, what’s wrong?’

‘Oh!’ Her hands fly to her face, leaving two streaks of flour across her cheeks. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’

Greg looks at her, really looks, and recognises the same frantic fear in her eyes as was there the other night, after he’d shown her the newspaper headlines.

‘What’s Sherlock done?’ he asks, holding out his hands. ‘Has he been to see you?’

 ‘He hasn’t done anything. It’s me … I …’

She stops herself grabbing his hand, pulling herself straight instead and lifting her head.

‘I almost didn’t do this.’ She looks away for a moment, as if she is ashamed. ‘I almost kept it a secret but … I don’t want that for us, for there to always be something in the background, keeping us apart. And it would. Because the longer I’ve gone without saying anything the worse it’s become and now that I can tell you, even though I don’t need to because there’s nothing to link me to it, I just have to. Greg I …’

‘Hush, it’s ok.’ He interrupts her before she can say anything incriminating, grateful for the flash of insight her words bring. ‘I do understand this time. You were trying to tell me on Thursday night, weren’t you, before I interrupted?’

The way she gasps and catches her bottom lip with her teeth tells him he’s right.

‘You helped Sherlock fake his death, didn’t you, because he told you what was at stake? You kept me safe, kept John safe, kept Mrs Hudson safe and you made sure he didn’t die.’

She goes to speak but he shushes her again, certain of what he has to do, what has to be said here and now.  

‘No, don’t tell me how. If I don’t know I won’t have to lie if anyone ever asks me. Besides, like you said, no one knows you’re involved - Sherlock hasn’t so much as mentioned you other than to congratulate me on finally seeing what was right under my nose – and what I just said was only speculation. I have no obligation to follow it up unless I find proof.’

‘Don’t you care?’ Molly blurts out, seemingly unable to stop herself. ‘Aren’t you angry I lied?’  

Greg reaches out, cradling her face in his hands as he steps closer. ‘I don’t care the way you mean, love. And I’m not angry, either. I … I’m grateful and I’m proud. Proud that you chose me, grateful that you are mine and I am yours and we are here, together. I always thought you were a strong woman, Molly Hooper, but I just didn’t realise how strong. I’m a very lucky man.’

There are tears streaming down Molly’s cheeks as he stops talking but the smile on her face would light the darkest of rooms.

 

_A week later …_

‘How is your side, Doctor Watson?’ Anthea asks as John walks into Mycroft’s office, Sherlock hard on his heels.

‘Sore,’ John says with a grimace. ‘But nothing the ampicillin and I can’t handle, though. I should have thanked you for that before.’

‘All part of the service.’ She winks at him, flicking her hair off her face as she stands.

‘I’ll review the file on the Russian minister, Sir,’ she says to Mycroft, then walks demurely to her own office, studiously ignoring the glare Sherlock is sending her way.

‘You really must learn to control yourself, Sherlock. She was only looking. Tea?’ Mycroft offers as the door closes and they take the seats clearly set out for them.

‘What do you want from us?’ Sherlock counters sharply, shuffling his chair closer to John’s. ‘We were busy.’

‘I don’t doubt.’

John feels his ears going red at the implication in Mycroft’s tone, decides that, in this case, discretion is definitely the better part of valour, and tries to defuse the tension with, ‘I’m sure whatever you have to say is important.’

‘Thank you, John.’ Mycroft hands him a china cup and manages a smile that is almost natural. ‘There are two matters I wish to discuss with you both. Firstly, I am making arrangements for the ubiquitous Mr Moran to have a fit of conscience and save us all the trouble of a day in court. I trust neither of you have any objections.’

‘None whatsoever,’ Sherlock says instantly but then reaches for John’s hand. ‘However …’

‘I’d pull the trigger myself if I didn’t think you were planning something far subtler.’ John speaks to Mycroft but squeezes Sherlock’s hand as he does so. ‘He broke every oath he ever made and I no longer count him as a brother. He is less than nothing to me now.’

‘Good, good.’ Mycroft lifts the topmost file from his desk, makes a small notation on it and sets it aside. ‘As it happens, John, the matter of you pulling triggers is what comprises the second item on my agenda.’

‘No, absolutely not, Mycroft.’ Sherlock is on his feet, glowering down at his brother. ‘It’s out of the question.’

John blinks a couple of times and then realises the conclusion Sherlock’s jumped to.

‘Are you offering me a job, Mycroft? Because flattering though that is, I already have one.’

‘You intend to continue doing locum work at an inner-city surgery?’ Mycroft radiates displeasure, from his raised eyebrows to his steadily tapping foot. ‘That hardly makes best use of your skills.’

‘Don’t be obtuse, brother mine.’ Sherlock flings himself back into his chair. ‘Of course he isn’t. He’s working with me. I can’t work without my _blogger_.’

John turns, grins at Sherlock, and, without missing a beat, says, ‘And I love you too, _honey_.’

The sputtering noise from Mycroft and the tinkle of a china tea cup hitting oak flooring is well worth it.

_A month later …_

Greg puts down the phone and leans back in his chair, tapping his biro against his teeth and not quite sure what to do with himself.

Because Sebastian Moran is dead.

Suicide apparently, after telling his cell mate he knew he’d be hunted down for what he’d done and he had no intention of succumbing to the fate that awaited anyone who turned on their own (although he’s damn sure Moran didn’t say it like that). So, he supposes, the case is now closed. It’s almost better than a confession, that scumbag topping himself. Means they don’t have to waste any money on the trial or keeping him in prison. Plus it gives him, Molly, Sherlock and John a fresh start. It won’t be as if it never happened but they can move on with their lives safe in the knowledge that these last two years are, and will remain forever, firmly in the past.

Still … he stares unseeingly at the closed door of his office and lets his thoughts unspool in his head. It all makes sense, on the surface, most of it exactly as he’d thought. Apart from the fact that half the killing spree was Moran rather than Moriarty after Moriarty … well, they still can’t tell whether it was suicide or murder; the freezing, thawing, and refreezing of the body plus some judicious use of chemicals on Moran’s part making it impossible to date the death accurately or find any trace evidence.

Moran certainly had a good motive for the killings and the way he tried to blame Sherlock and John for it all was wholly predictable and easily dismissed. In fact the amount of stuff Moran had kept on jobs, going back years, had turned his team into the best performing at the Yard, closing out more cases in the last four weeks than they had in whole of the six months previously.

And yet … a small part of him is pointing out - rather quietly it has to be said, but nevertheless – that Sherlock’s motives are actually stronger than Moran’s, and anyone who can fake his death so successfully could certainly, with enough time to plan, have managed to frame Moran and take Moriarty out too. Especially with someone as loyal and skilled as John at his side.  

_Stop it_ , he tells himself firmly, standing and pulling his jacket on, _there’s not one shred of evidence that Sherlock and John did anything more than they said they did or were anywhere other than they said they were. Leave well enough alone and go home to Molly._

Only he doesn’t go home. Instead he finds himself on a tube going in the opposite direction, to Embankment and then Baker Street via the Bakerloo line.

Mrs Hudson opens the door to him, enveloping him in a hug in exactly the same way as she has the other three times he’s been over since Sherlock came home. He still doesn’t feel comfortable here, the mesh of old and new memories rasping like sandpaper in his brain. Still, the strains of a violin floating down the stairs make it easier to start up the seventeen steps. He can’t tell what it is – he’s never been one for classical music – but he can tell that the person playing is completely relaxed and that, in turn, relaxes him.

He pauses on the top step, as the flat door is open and he can see the whole living room, lit by the dying rays of the sun. Sherlock is by the window, clad in a soft grey cotton t-shirt and blue silk pyjama bottoms, swaying to the notes and phrases as if he’s entire consumed by them. John is on the sofa just watching him, face alight with joy. When one piece of music morphs into another without pause Greg makes to leave, unwilling to disturb such a personal, perfect scene, but is stopped by Mrs Hudson, who’s come silently up behind him.

‘Go on,’ she says, patting his hand and nodding towards the room. ‘They’ll be glad to see you.’

‘Greg!’ John calls, pushing himself upright and smiling in welcome. ‘Have you brought a case?’

‘I thought that was Sherlock’s line,’ he says, walking in and clapping John on the shoulder in greeting.

‘You are always welcome, Lestrade,’ Sherlock says, somewhat awkwardly, as he sets the violin back in its case. ‘Whether or not you have a case.’

‘Um, thank you,’ he says, entirely nonplussed, ‘I, uh, I actually brought some news.’

‘Good, I hope.’ Sherlock sinks into his chair and shoots Greg a sideways glance, one that makes Greg suspect he knows already.

‘Depends on how you define it. Moran is dead. Suicide, apparently.’

‘Well that is _definitely_ good news,’ Mrs Hudson says vehemently, moving over to Sherlock’s chair and perching on the arm. ‘That man was a menace to society, Detective Inspector, and I for one shall sleep more soundly, knowing he will never have another chance to hurt anyone in this world.’

 ‘Very well said, Mrs Hudson,’ John says, pushing himself to his feet and going to join them, giving her a one-armed hug and running the fingers of his other hand through Sherlock’s curls. ‘I have to say I think it’s for the best as well.’

‘As,’ Sherlock says, pressing his head back into John’s hand, ‘do I.’

Greg looks at the three of them and wonders if he dare even think that Mrs Hudson might have been in on it as well as John, that the three of them have managed to commit a series of perfect crimes.

‘Ask us no questions, we’ll tell you no lies,’ Sherlock says, apropos of nothing, standing and walking over to Greg. ‘I believe I once told you that you were the best of a bad lot. I must now say that there is nothing bad about you.’

‘Other than an inconvenient habit of picking at details?’

‘You only do that when it’s warranted. In this case …? You tell me.’

Sherlock is looking at him with such seriousness it’s almost overwhelming. But he’s right. There would be no benefit to anyone for him to know what had really happened. What matters is that the right people are still here, alive and happy, and those who could cause harm are in no position to do so any more. Justice has been served, even if not by conventional means.

‘There would be no point,’ he says and then steps forward and pulls Sherlock into a hug. ‘God, Sherlock, it’s good to have you back.’

Sherlock’s arms wrap around him and he finds his shoulder blade being patted vaguely.

‘It’s good to _be_ back.’ Sherlock sounds distinctly uncomfortable but makes no move to pull away. Greg saves him the trouble, releasing him and stepping back, to find himself the recipient of three broad smiles.

‘Right, now that’s settled, can I get anyone a cup of tea?’ John is already moving towards the kitchen when Mrs Hudson stops him.

‘Oh, let me do that, dear,’ she says brightly, ‘just this once.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been an absolute blast doing this, even if real life has tried to interfere more than once, and amindaya and I are both really grateful for the kudos and comments we've received along the way. We hope you've enjoyed it all!
> 
> Amindaya has now put all the art together in one place - [here](http://amindaya.tumblr.com/post/71624405196/illustrations-for-beyond-the-grave-by-kizzia-for) \- please go look and tell her how marvellous she is and re-blog the heck out of it!


End file.
